


Pet

by Jaydee_Faire



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, M/M, Master/Slave, Multi, Rape, Sexual Slavery, Underage - Freeform, Violence, but that's what it is now lol, non-con, this didn't start out as a giant fuck you to the tumblr purity brigade, youngest character is 17
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-16 21:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14173443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaydee_Faire/pseuds/Jaydee_Faire
Summary: Bound to a bed and stripped of everything including his name, "Darkling" is forced to submit to the whims of whoever pays for his time. As the weeks and months pass, he learns to cling to the small things that make his life bearable– and with each freedom he's granted, the more deeply mired he becomes in a world built to keep him enslaved.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'll put a much more articulate intro here in a while, but for now: those tags are not kidding. This is a very hardcore slavekink fic. If any of those tags is not your thing, turn back now.

_They're talking calmly to each other over my head. I don't understand them, can't understand the hard sounds, words stopping too suddenly, laying too flat. Even if I could, the noise around me is deafening: creaking of old wood, shouts and the slap of water against the shore. Birds make strange mocking sounds overhead and I can hear the others crying, wailing, grunting in pain and protest._

_My shoulders and the back of my neck burn in the heat, the bottoms of my feet are scraped raw and bleeding from standing on nothing but splintered wood for so long. My head is tilted back and I keep my eyes shut tight, the light staining my vision red. He barks a command with those jagged-edged words: open your eyes._

_When I don't, his crop strikes me across my blistered shoulders. The sound I make sets both of them laughing. He repeats his command._

_The dazzle of light off the water is more painful than the welt across my shoulders. The tears that spill over are a relief, as is the heavy, warm hand that settles itself over my eyes to shield them. Oh, darkness. I lean into that touch._

_I thrash when my hands are bound, weep and howl like an animal. Weak and panicky, I'm easily held down and my world narrows to the width of the mattress. He tells me that I must be patient, that patience is the only thing that will keep the pain away. I should tell him that I've already had enough of that kind of pain._

_What he does to me is worse._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slaves in Portton don't need to be registered, but sales of slaves worth over 10,000 wen are required to be reported to the city, where they'll be recorded and filed with the treasurer.

My days have been so foggy, and so similar, that I can't be sure any more how many there've been now. 

Each morning I wake to the sound of someone padding barefoot across the floor boards of my room to open the curtains and the window. Sometimes it's a warm breeze and the clean, salty smell of the sea that reaches me. Other days the wind shifts and I hear the distant cries of gulls and the rotten, fishy stink of the docks makes my stomach turn. 

If I lay still and pretend to be asleep, they'll stand at the window for a moment, inhaling deeply and then sighing in contentment before crossing back to the door. Calling out to them never brings a response; I know them only by their soft tread, that sigh, the click of the window latch and the change in the air. 

They are the gentlest thing about my day.

The clink of plates and the rattle of metal on metal down the hall is what comes next. Outside the window, people shout to one another. Greetings. Curses, good natured and not. A woman with a ringing voice is calling out that she has rolls hot, two wen for six. She sounds close, maybe only just below the open window. I scream for help, scream for someone to free me, to save me.

A man storms into the room, slapping me hard across my cheek. His second blow sets my ears ringing, so that I only faintly hear the voices below the window: 

"D'y hear that?"

"Don't mind it, it's just one of his whores. They're always a bit squawky when they're new, he'll quieten down soon. Here you go, love, and you mark how much bigger these are than Hausman's down Linden street, and fresher besides..."

He leaves me laying there, panting and crying, and goes to shut the window and latch it again. "Found your voice, did you boy? I was about sure you were a mute." I feel his fingers rake through my hair and I jerk away from his touch, as far as my bonds will allow. "Or that you only spoke some savage's language."

"I hate you," I say hoarsely.

He laughs. "Do you? But I suppose you'll still want to be fed, bathed and fucked whenever you beg for it." He hooks his fingers into my blindfold and lifts it. I flinch, blinking hard until my eyes adjust to the light.

I want to look anywhere but at him, close my eyes, be blinded again. But I can't-- I've been in the dark for so long that my eyes dart everywhere, greedily drinking in every new sight, every color, every texture. The man's broad shoulders, his dark eyes, his long, coarse hair, hanging in a tangle over one shoulder-- he must have tumbled out of bed as soon as he heard me start calling for help.

“Ah, those eyes,” he says softly, stroking my cheek. “Far more beautiful than you deserve. What did you do, my little sweet-mouthed whore,” he asks, “to be given eyes as lovely as yours?”

I don’t answer; I’ve craned my neck to look above me, at my hands chained together and bound to a bar at the head of the bed. The leather cuffs around my wrists are beginning to chafe my skin red. I clench my hands into fists, feeling the cuffs scrape places they’ve been scraping for days. I’m not going to look at him again. The window isn’t so far away: if I twist and bend, I might be able to turn my head enough to see sunlight through the curtains.

“Stubborn,” he says fondly. His thick, calloused fingers trace my collar bone, then down across my bare chest. He pinches my nipples, rolling them between finger and thumb, teasing them to hardness and watching me try to squirm away from his touch. “Ah, sensitive there. Still a bit sore from yesterday, I’m sure.”

Yesterday. I stare at an oil lamp mounted on the opposite wall, beside the door to the hall. The delicate glass chimney must have been expensive. And the lamp itself is shiny brass, well used but well cared for. I like it. I like looking at it. It’ll be even prettier when lit. 

The flame on the wick will burn blue at the bottom, then white, then yellow. I don’t know how I remember this. I’ve been blindfolded for days, I--

Yesterday.

I pull my mind away from that thought and it comes back as the man traces a wandering line down my belly, across my abdomen. It wakes a memory of his hands on my skin, of his mouth pressed to mine, of him moving inside of me. Something blooms inside of me-- dread. Anticipation. Humiliation. 

“Bit early for that.” He pats my thigh, groaning as he straightens up again. “Let’s see you fed and washed first. Now I’m not going to hear you caterwauling again, am I?” 

There’s a square of sunlight on the wall now, overlaid with lacy shadow. I keep my eyes on it, refusing to look up at him until he takes my chin in his hand and forces me to meet his gaze. “You are going to lay still and quiet,” he says, “or I am going to pull out your teeth. Do you understand?”

I nod, and he shakes me, jerking my head back and forth. “Answer,” he snaps. “With your mouth.”

“Y-yes.” My jaw hurts from the way his fingers are digging into it. “Yes, I understand.”

He glares at me a moment longer, then releases me. “There’s a good boy. Now I’ve got to make sure that the others’ve eaten, and then we’ll see about getting you something for breakfast.” 

He tugs my blindfold back down and tugs it tight. Heavy footsteps, and then the click of the door closing. My cheek throbs with a hot red pain in time with my slowing heartbeat. The indifferent sounds of the world creep back in. Down the hall, the clang of metal has turned into a sizzle of cooking food and a rumble of conversation. I hear the man’s voice, the hard, clipped accent that I'd been unable to understand that first time I'd heard it. The delicate glittery sound of someone laughing and an answering chuckle, lower and rougher. 

Still. Lay still and quiet.

A memory tickles at me: crawling underneath the kitchen table, making it a fortress with the bright checkered tablecloth its hard stone walls. I was under siege, breadcrumbs and a dried up peel of fruit my only remaining rations. Something must be done. I must be brave and go out to face the invading forces. 

Yesterday.

Years ago.

Lay still. Breathe quietly. 

I listen to light footsteps, water sloshing into a basin. The bedroom door clicks open and I tense, but it shuts again only a moment later. Out in the hallway, the man’s gentle scolding: "Nahne. Leave him be."

It's some time before the door opens again, this time admitting the sound of a man’s boots and the strong smell of meat and spice. I flinch when he sets a warm plate down on my belly and hold my breath, trembling, as he leans over me and turns a key in the lock keeping my hands chained above me.

"Mrs. Dace brought us a jar of marmalade this morning." He tugs my blindfold down again, but I don't dare to move. "It's a bit more tart than I like it, but I could hardly keep the boys away from it. I thought you'd like a taste, too."

I take a breath, staring up at the ceiling. "Yes," I say finally. "... Please."

"There's a good boy." He tickles me under the chin. "I knew you were a smart lad. Sit up."

Even with my hands freed, it takes a grimace, the scrabbling of my sore feet against the mattress, and the help of the man to get me upright. He lets me sit against the head of the bed, watches as I roll forward over my lap to stretch my back. "How is your mouth?" he asks, moving the plate to the end of the bed. "Let me see."

I open my mouth and he draws my lower lip down with his thumb. There's a painful, copper-tasting spot there, and he shakes me once when I try to prod it with my tongue. "Idiot," he mutters. "I'd have killed him if he'd split your lip. What kind of slaver hits a whore in the mouth? And a pretty one like yours, at that."

"I don't know," I say. "I wish he hadn't done it either." 

That earns me a little quirk of a smile. "It's healing well. We'll just be gentle with it. Do you want to eat?"

I nod. "M'hungry."

"I'll bet you are, waking up the house with your wailing." He strokes my hair back, scratches my scalp like a favorite dog. "I've brought you that marmalade and a bit of sausage. And tea, since Nahne insisted." 

He takes a bit of sausage between his fingers and puts it to my lips. I've chewed and swallowed it and am licking the juices from my lips before I've even had a thought of feeding myself. 

He offers me another slice of sausage, and then a piece of yellow cheese. The marmalade is spread thin across a the end of a loaf of bread, sweet and tart and delicious. That's a taste I'm craving again almost before I've finished chewing, and when I lean forward to take the next bite from him he teases it out of my reach, shaking his head. "Manners," he says, but his tone is warm, amused. 

I could please him, mewl for more and make a show of licking and sucking his fingertips. The sharp, cold memories lurking in the corners of my eyes are whispering that I can give him what he wants, that I can have his praise and affection.

I'm not that hungry yet.

The tea he's brought for me is bitter and he smiles when I wrinkle my nose at the taste. I try to turn my head away from it but he forces it on me anyway, his eyes on my throat as I struggle to swallow, tea spilling down my chin. I nearly gag on it, panting for air when he finally pulls the lip of the cup away. "It's strong, I know," he says.

"I don't-- like the taste."

"Perhaps you don't, but you're too old for milk and too young for coffee, not that I'd waste that on you anyway." He reaches out and wipes a bit of marmalade away from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. "Too expensive for a whore who hasn't even earned his first wen."

I'd heard the woman outside the window use that word, too. "What's a _wen?"_

The man's smile this time is more of a smirk. "You cost me about a hundred wen. That slaver was asking two hundred, but you're not worth that. Not yet. " He taps a finger against my lips, then stands up. "I think it's time for a wash, and those bandages need changed."

"My feet," I say, looking down at the white bandages wrapped around them for the first time. Sore. They're sore, but they'd been agony before. Red and angry, throbbing with pain. "Oh. I can't... I can't walk on them."

"You can if you go slowly and take care to lean on me," he says. "I'm too old to be carrying you up and down the hall like a sack of potatoes. It's a different matter when you're senseless and boiling with fever, but now that you're well enough to be chatty you can start stretching your legs again."

Fever. Shaking with cold, someone cursing at me and vowing to cut off the slaver's hand if I die of infection. Stinking poultices pressed against the sores on my feet and cool, damp rags laid across my forehead. 

"Up," the man says impatiently, seizing the chain between my wrists and pulling me over the side of the bed. 

I just manage to get my legs under me, stumble hard, then cry out in pain and sink to my knees. The man hauls me upright again and I cling to him, fingers digging into his shirt. He puts one arm around my waist and the other across my shoulders, pulling me close. For several moments all I can do is huddle against him, eyes shut, trying to find space around the pain to breathe. 

"It's not going to get better, I promise you," the man says. "Just walk."

I shuffle across the floorboards, gasping and jerking when the edge of my bandages catches on an uneven spot in the wood. The man lets me clutch at him but drags me relentlessly forward, ignoring my protests and pleas to go a bit slower. My toes curl under as I gingerly put my weight on one foot, then the other, shuddering with the pain.

The floor in the hallway is easier to move across than the planks in the tiny bedroom: here, wooden boards are smooth and polished, and the hall itself is narrow enough that I can help support myself against the wall. I hear the patter of footsteps ahead of me and look up just in time to see someone vanish into another room. "I see you spying," the man barks. "Get back to your work! Nosy as a washerwoman," he mutters, kicking another door open.

I feel cool, hard tile under my feet and then nearly sob with relief when I'm allowed to sit down on a low stool. I lean back against the wall, looking out at the room from beneath my eyelashes. A water pump and a drain, a battered tin tub. Alongside one wall is a shelf stacked with towels, two wooden buckets hanging from hooks below. Warmth radiates from an iron tank in the opposite corner, the copper pipe jutting from it tinged with green. Cold water from the pump, hot water from the tank. 

The man returns to me with a bucket that sloshes steaming water as he sets it down on the tile. He slips a finger underneath my bandages to pull them loose and quickly unravels them, wrapping layer after layer of stained linen around his hand. I cringe and pull my foot back slightly as the last layer pulls stickily away from the sores on the bottoms of my feet. I wait for the smell of dried blood, of sickness, of infection. The wet green smell of the ship's hold, overlaid with sweat and urine. The sour smell of the first mate's breath. 

I inhale the scent of soap and clean steam, feeling dizzy. 

"These are doing better too," the man says as he lifts my foot up to inspect it. "Not ready to close yet, but the infection's almost gone. You were lucky to live at all, to say nothing of keeping your feet." 

He strips the bandages off of my other foot, making a pleased sound when he finds a good red scab there instead of a sickly yellow one. I expect him to scrub my feet with the hot water, but he fishes a little metal tool out of his pocket and uses it to loosen the leather cuffs around my wrists and pull them free. "That's so you can stand up and piss on your own," he says, getting to his feet. "I'm not doing that for you anymore, either. There's a pot there. Then we'll scrub you down."

It's still painful to stand, but I limp across the room to relieve myself. The man gathers up the soiled bandages, shoots me a warning glare, then walks back out into the hallway, leaving me alone. I feel almost a pull as he walks away, like a tiny crab being dragged along in a receding wave. 

Then the pressure lessens, leaving me suddenly aware of myself, the aches and twinges, my cheek where he's slapped me, the raw feeling between my thighs. I'm naked, barefooted, my hair hanging in matted curls almost to my shoulders. My neck and chest are sticky where I'd spilled tea earlier and suddenly I can't stand the feeling of it, can't stand anything clinging to my skin. I reach up to pull a rag and a cake of soft white soap down from a shelf and return to the stool to wash myself. 

My shoulders ache from being bound for so long, but it feels good to scrub under my arms, down my sides, the back of my neck, scratching itchy spots that I haven't been able to reach. I'd never thought I'd love the smell of soap so much, get so much satisfaction out of watching gray-white suds slide off of me and toward the drain.

I hear a step in the doorway and look up, expecting the man to have returned. Instead there's a boy, tall and slender, staring fixedly at me from behind a curtain of long black hair. I stare back at him, unsure of what to say. When he doesn't move or speak, I offer him a faint smile. "Um. Hello."

The boy shoves his hair out of his eyes, stepping closer and then leaning down over me to look into my face. His eyes are a striking shade of blue, almost too large in his pale face. Unable to bear his silent staring any longer, I look away, dunking my rag into the water bucket again and then taking my time wringing it out. I can still feel him standing over me. "Do you live here?" I ask.

Instead of answering, he reaches out to touch me-- my hair, wrapping a strand of it around one finger to feel the texture of it. I turn to look at him again, uneasy, but find that his eyes have lost a little of their wildness and his gaze is easier to meet. He tucks a damp lock of my hair behind my ear, raising goosebumps on my skin. He touches my face with a fingertip next, tracing the curve of my cheek.

It tickles. I laugh, pulling away a little, but the movement startles him; he jerks back, and before I can apologize, he turns and slips out into the hall again. A heartbeat later I hear the man's heavy footsteps coming up the hall. Maybe it was him the boy was running from, not me. 

"Ah, you've figured out how to wash yourself." The man is cradling a clay jar in one arm and several rolls of fresh linen bandages in the other. "How to begin, anyway."

I wring the wet rag between my hands. Looking up at him feels dangerous-- I can only meet his eyes for an instant. Even staring down at the water dripping down my bare legs, I can feel his gaze raking over me. I want to curl up into a ball like a many-legged insect, crawl out of his reach, scuttle down the drain. 

But all I can do is sit still, staring at the soap bubbles riding on the tile while he sets the jars and bandages aside and comes to take the rag out of my hands. "I see you know to wash the back of your neck," he says, "but you'll need to wash your feet, as well, here behind your heel. And take care to scrub your fingernails."

I don't ask why, but as he takes my hand in his to wash my palms and my wrists, he goes on, "Your feet and hands must always be clean. It will keep you healthy, keep sickness away from you, understand?" He turns my hand over, smooths his thumb across my palm. "If you're sick, you can't work. And if you can't work, you're useless to me." He pauses, then, "Say 'yes sir.'"

I swallow. "Yes sir," I mumble to the floor.

He goes on to wash my back, working the rag and then his fingers over my skin. Slicked with soap, his touch slides down my sides, down my abdomen, between my thighs. I tense, drawing my legs together, and he comes close to me, his mouth close to my ear as he says, "I know you're a clever boy. Much more clever than some of the others I've had under my roof. Be clever enough not to refuse me."

So I close my eyes and bite my lip as he parts my thighs, takes my cock in his hand and strokes it, running his thumb over the head and then down the underside as if it's something he's thinking of buying in a market. 

No. I'm the thing he's bought. Traded for coins to be brought home and consumed.

He pulls his hand slowly up the shaft, repeating the motion until I begin to grow hard in his grip. He murmurs his approval when my breath begins to come more raggedly, lets me put a hand on his shoulder and lean against him. The first sound that I make delights him-- he kisses me on the cheek and then releases me, leaving me trembling, still aching for release. 

I watch, miserable, as he refills the wooden bucket with clean, warm water and pours it over me to rinse the soap from my skin. It takes two more buckets to get me clean, and he ignores my whimpering as he towels me off. I'm more than sure that he'll be angry if I try to touch myself, even as he moves the towel between my legs and I feel my hips buck into it.

"You'll learn to ask for the things you want," he says, hanging the towel on a hook and taking down the jar and the bandages. "And then you'll learn to earn them."

I don't want this. I know what he'll ask of me next. I don't want to want him to touch me. I don't want to be what he wants. But when he takes me back to the bed and chains my wrists together again, what I want won't matter. 

He lifts my foot and smears on a thick salve from the jar at his side. The pressure from his fingers is painful, but he has little patience for my flinches and protests. When he's finished he wraps my foot in clean bandages from toes to ankle, tying them neatly off. The other foot doesn't hurt nearly as badly when he handles it, but chills crawl over my skin with every touch. 

"Another day or so and they'll close, and then they won’t be so sore," he says, helping me to my feet and guiding me away from the puddles of soapy water around the stool I'd been sitting on. I totter a few steps on my own, holding my breath to keep from crying out in pain, but in the end I'm forced to lean on him again. He slides his arm around my waist, hand moving down to my hip.

I hadn't realized how narrow and thin my mattress in the bedroom was until I'm looking down at it again. My stomach clenches as I'm pushed down onto it, and when the man fits the leather cuffs back to my wrists and pulls my arms over my head I resist, pulling back on his grip and grimacing. In the next moment I'm seeing stars, reeling from the blow to my temple. I cry out, a startled caw of pain that's cut short when the man slaps his hand over my open mouth to silence me.

"I had such high hopes that you would learn your place quickly," he says, his palm pressing down across my nose and mouth so that I can barely breathe. "But no, you're just as ordinary and dull-witted as any other sniveling gutter whore I've taught." 

I whip my head to one side, lungs burning for air; he tightens his hold on me and climbs onto the bed to straddle me. I try to get my legs underneath me, panicking, but his weight is already pinning my hips to the mattress. He leans down close to me, turning my head to force me to look up at him. "Just this once," he says softly, "I'm going to let you cry while I fuck you. Just to show you how little it will help you."

He releases me, pushing my knees apart and placing himself between them so I have no room to move away from him again. I suck in a breath, yanking my wrists against the cuffs, pulling the short length of chain taut as if I'd be able to free myself that way. My cry for help comes out high and frightened and he laughs at me, braces his hand against my shoulder and mockingly invites me to try again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharing helps my work get seen by more people who might have missed it otherwise! Follow updates on my tumblr: @cyberphuck


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unapprenticed girls in Portton can be enrolled in a "work school," where they are sent out to clients' homes during the mornings-- usually to clean, mend clothing, or collect laundry-- in exchange for education in the afternoons. 70% of their pay from outside jobs goes to the school, while the remaining 30% is put into a trust to be turned over to them upon reaching adulthood.

It doesn't last long, but it lasts.

When he leaves me, I'm aching and sore, my eyes swollen from crying and my throat raw from screaming, from begging, from laying still and trying to sob quietly until he was finished. I can feel his sweat drying on me, his come oozing out of me. I think I should care-- should want to be clean, to scrub the feeling of his touch off me-- but I don't. I lay motionless on the bed, watching the square of sunlight from the window inch across the floor. 

It grows quiet, the sort of crowded quiet of a house full of people, each at their own work in the middle of a calm day. The man has gone to wash; the pump squeaks as he draws water. I hear a rhythmic thump over the sound of someone humming softly to themselves. Every so often, a soft chime. 

The door's been left open a crack and it makes it easier for me to hear someone walking up a flight of stairs and then down the hallway to stand in front of it. Not the man's heavy boots, nor the boy's lighter tread, but somewhere in between. They stand at the door for a few moments, breathing softly, then move on. 

"He's gotten better, then?" 

The thumping stops. I turn my head slightly, straining to hear. 

"I thought for sure Garren was going to get rid of him. He was so sick. What are you making? Oh, not _pork,_ don't we have anything else?" In an even lower tone, so that I barely catch it: "I've seen what pigs eat. That goes into their meat, you know."

I feel myself smiling a little. Yes. Huge, beady eyes, I'd always been warned not to fall into their pen. As if I would have gone anywhere near it, I could smell it from all the way down the road, and hated having to walk down to throw scraps into their trough. They squealed when one of them got dragged off to slaughter, and I could hear it even though I hid in the hayloft with my hands over my ears and my eyes shut tight...

"Where is he? Garren? Did he-- oh." Quietly, and in a completely different tone, "Hello, Master."

"I assume you're in here pestering Nahne because you've already finished all of your chores." The man's voice, too calm and even to be safe. 

"I-- er-- I was going to scrub the floors. But I thought I'd wait for the Destin girl to bring the linens first." There's a strained pause. "...And I was looking at the new boy."

"Hadn't I told you not to concern yourself with him?"

"Yes sir."

"And so why were you snooping?" When there's no answer, he says, "Go start on the floors, Chee, and stay out of business that isn't your own. I'll send the Destin girl up when she arrives and I want Nahne to help her redress the beds--"

"--But--"

"While you contemplate how angry I'll be with you if you disobey me again. You've had the cane twice this week, are you so eager to get it again?" 

A mumbled answer, too low to hear.

"Hmm?"

"No sir."

"You had better put that pouting mouth away, Cheeky, before I find a use for it. Go on."

Footsteps stomp to the bathroom. The squeak of the water pump makes it impossible to understand what the man says next, though I can hear his voice for some time. When he's finally gone-- a door opens and closes and his boots descend the stairs again-- I breathe out in relief, leaning my head back and closing my eyes. The rhythmic sound of a scrub brush moving back and forth against the wooden floors lulls me, even as someone grumbles while they work.

I wake to find a girl staring at me, face red. 

Perplexed, I stare back. She's young, younger than I am, wearing a pinafore over gray skirts and a white blouse, and all I can think is that I pity her if those severely starched creases are as uncomfortable as they look. She reminds me of a matchstick, stiff and skinny with a ruddy, bulbous head too big for her narrow shoulders. The basket she's carrying in both hands is wider than she is.

She's not staring at me, I realize, but _at_ me-- a boy splayed nude on a bed with his hands bound over his head. She looks so horrified that I feel my own face begin to heat, wishing I were somewhere else.

Well, I always wish I were somewhere else, but especially now.

"Out of the way, Mary, out of the way, c'mon." 

The girl backs out of the doorway, eyes still huge, and another girl in the same gray skirts and pinafore pushes her way through. This one is a little plumper, old enough for petticoats and to look at me with the cool indifference of someone who has a job to do, regardless of how many naked prisoners are in her way. 

She balances her own basket on her hip as she dodges expertly around her partner and through the door, marching right up to me and setting her load down with a thump. "Where's the other boy?" She demands loudly. "The one with the key?"

"He's out here." The skinny one peeks through the door again. "... Can you... can you, er...?"

"Can I what? Get in here so I can show you how to do the sheets."

The boy I'd met in the bathroom slips through the door, eyeing one girl and then the other as he passes them with his mouth a hard line of dislike. He comes to undo the chain between my wrists and then has to take my elbow and hurry me off of the bed as the older girl pushes us aside. "Hurry up, hurry up, don't you know we've got more jobs today? Mary, come *on,* I'm not going to take stripes from the Headmistress because you wouldn't stop dragging your feet."

Mary brings her basket into the room, cheeks still pink and eyes carefully pointed away from me. "You shouldn't be sharp with them, Agatha," she whispers as she helps strip the soiled sheets off of my bed. 

Agatha snorts, casting a smirking glance at the boy, who glares back. "What's _he_ going to do, tell his Master?" She bundles the old sheets into a ball and dumps them in Mary's empty basket. "All he does is make noises."

The boy's helped me limp to a chair by the window and he's still glaring daggers at the girls while he leans past me to open it. A breeze wafts through, warm and smelling of the sea. While Mary and Agatha snap fresh sheets across the bed, I look out the window at a line of tall, narrow buildings crowded shoulder to shoulder across the street. Their faces are painted in bright colors softened by years of salty storm winds, their roofs tiled in red. Down below is a cobbled street that slides sharply down and around a corner, probably winding down towards the ocean. 

It isn't so far to the ground. I could jump. Maybe I would shatter like a dropped teacup on the cobblestones. Maybe I'd still have the strength to drag myself to the shore. And then...

Then...

I look away from the window, struggling not to fall into that vast, empty chasm where my memories should be.

The boy is standing beside me with his arms crossed, weight on one hip while he watches the girls finish dressing the bed. Agatha snaps at her skinny companion that there's still three beds to go, and that she'd better keep moving and stop dawdling. They bustle out of the room, lugging their baskets. The boy wrinkles his nose at their backs.

"Do they live here too?" I ask. "This place must be crowded."

The boy glances back at me, softening a little. Just as before, he gently fingers the curls in my hair, then touches my cheek. He takes my hand as if to pull me to my feet again, but I shake my head. "Please-- let me sit here a little while longer. It hurts to walk." I don't know if he understands anything I'm saying. Maybe my accent is as thick and incomprehensible to him as the master of the house's was to me. I show him my bandaged feet. "These. They're still sore."

He hesitates. He must be responsible for looking after me, since he has the key to my cuffs, and I can't imagine he's allowed to just leave me sitting by an open window, even if it _is_ too far for me to jump. But, "Please," I say again. "I just want to feel the breeze for a little while. I won't try to run away. I promise."

After a moment of thought he releases me, only to lean forward and take my face in his hands, bringing his eyes close to mine. I've hardly had time to startle before he pulls away again, pressing his lips to my forehead in a kiss and then walking off out the open door. 

He might have gone to get the master so he can hurt me again for refusing to get up when told. He might have gone to get, I don't know, a big stick to hit me with. But he's been gentle to me so far, and I want to believe that I don't have anything to fear from him. I lean back into the chair, looking out the window, and after a while I hear the water pump squeaking again and the two girls bickering while they work. 

A horse pulling a cart full of thick brown jugs toils up the hill below. The animal is bigger than any I've ever seen before, huge hooves topped by shaggy white tufts of hair. Its body is red, with a white mane and tail bound up in leather strips. Despite its heavy load the horse looks sleepy, long lashes down, soft mouth licking lazily at the bit. It doesn't seem to mind the baffling tangle of buckles and straps wrapped around it, or the round brass bells jingling at its flanks.

A step at the door makes me think the boy's returned from wherever he's gone. I turn, wondering if I'm ready to try to stand yet, but it isn't the slender, long-haired boy standing in the doorway: it's someone else, someone whose narrow-eyed expression of suspicion and dislike is all too easy to interpret. 

The hard angles of his face and the darkness of his eyes are different from the Master's, or anyone else I've seen in the house. When he sees me staring at him, his mouth cants in a sneer. 

"Um," I say softly. "Have you come to--?"

But he simply turns and leaves, radiating aggressive disinterest like an insulted cat. 

One friendly boy. One unfriendly. Two bickering girls, and one dangerous man. And me, whatever I am. My glimpse of the hallway and the rooms along it don't seem large enough to house so many people, especially as I've a room to myself, small and low-ceilinged as it is. Maybe all the others share beds. Maybe this place is much larger than I think it is, but I haven't seen it yet. 

Perhaps downstairs, there are rooms upon rooms of people like me, shackled and crippled.

The long-haired boy returns after a few minutes, carrying a full wash basin on his hip. He sets it down on a rickety little table beside the bed, then looks up at me and smiles. It's balm to my soul, that simple, friendly curve of the lips. 

When he comes to help me up from the chair, he takes both my hands in his as if we're going to dance, then slowly leads me back to bed, stepping back as I mince forward. His hands are soft and cool, long fingers strong where they grip mine. I watch my own feet move for a bit, then look up at him and his smile widens. He leans in to peck me on the cheek, lingering there to make a soft, tickling hum against my skin. My breath catches and I flinch back, unsure of what he wants from me. But there's only his silence and his smile, gentle and encouraging. 

I sit down on the edge of the bed and, with much wiggling and shifting manage to get my legs up and lay down in a comfortable position. The boy makes a gesture, tapping his wrists together, and I reach my arms above my head so he can bind me again. I feel uncomfortably exposed and vulnerable to him in a way that I hadn't before-- I don't know if he's going to hurt me in the same way the Master does, if he wants me like that, if he expects me to reciprocate his tender show of affection. I'm still sore and sticky from the last time I'd been used and the thought makes my stomach clench.

He dips his hand into the steaming washbasin and withdraws a sopping wet rag, wringing most of the moisture from it. Then he motions for me to spread my legs. 

I shut my eyes, draw a breath and hold it. He bathes my thighs, my abdomen, my hips where the Master had gripped me. I wait, stomach knotted, for him to do something awful to me. But his movements are quick and thorough, wiping all traces of the Master away and leaving me feeling something closer to normal. Whatever my normal is, now.

The boy straightens up, tossing his soiled wash rag into the basin of water. I look up at him as he brings his face close to mine again, his long hair slipping forward over his shoulders and making a dark, soft curtain around us. He touches his forehead to mine, taps the tips of his fingers against my temple. 

He withdraws, leaving me shaking. I try to swallow back tears, a bundle of words stuck in my throat-- don't go. Don't go. Please, let me out of here. Don't leave me here for that man to hurt me again.

The boy stands up, pushing his hair back away from his face, and turns to go. "Wait," I choke. "Wait."

He pauses in the act of picking up the water basin. Don't go, don't go, don't go. "Tell me your name," I say. "So I can call for you."

A smile, small and sad. He turns and leaves without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a community health clinic in Chastity City where citizens can be treated for injury and illness. In Portton, however, there is no hospital and no clinic and since most people can't afford an expensive private doctor, they rely on barber-surgeons and apothecaries for health care.

"It smells good up here!"

A man's voice, but not the Master's. The boy had left my door open a crack; as the man walks by, I see a flash of gray and gold. Someone tall. "What's on the menu?"

"Pork," comes the answering whine. _"Again._ I'm tired of eating pork."

"As long as Mr. Cine keeps paying us with his little oinkers, we're going to be eating pork."

"I heard Mr. Cine has chickens, too. He could pay us in chickens. I _like_ chicken."

"Where did you hear that?"

"He told me. He told me all about his farm, and he said he comes all the way into town special just to see me."

"Hah. Right. Don't forget what I told you about customers who think you're special, Cheeky. Men are fickle. He'll find someone else special eventually and leave you in a heartbeat."

"I know." Sullen. "I don't like him or anything."

"But you like the feeling." There's a smile in the man's voice as he goes on, "You're special to _me._ You know you'll always be my favorite."

"Mm." Breathy, riding on a sigh. 

"Come on. I've been thinking about you all day."

Quiet, and then the soft, intimate sound of a kiss. An indrawn breath, ragged, let out in a sound that sends a tingle across my skin. The two of them move down the hall, and there is another long moment of silence before I hear a giggling yelp of surprise and pleasure, and "Shhh, he'll hear you downstairs," from the man.

I close my eyes and listen to the rhythmic sound of their lovemaking. The man's harsh, panting breaths, the boy's moans growing louder and more desperate. I can't help what's happening to me-- it's not as if I can cover my ears. I try to breathe evenly, but find my breaths matching their pace, my body tensing as they near climax and then the man is whispering _"Fuck"_ and the boy is whimpering _"Wil, Wil, yes,"_ and I know a moment of helplessness and frustration as I hear the boy cry out in pleasure and release and realize that I'm still bound to this bed, untouched and wanting.

A few beats of breathless silence, then a low questioning murmur, answered by a laugh. 

"No, stay, stay with me just a little," the boy begs over the creak of the mattress as someone gets up. 

"I want to. But it sounds like lunch is almost done, and I've got to eat and get back downstairs. It's a wonder Master even believes it takes me this long to eat a meal in the first place. I don't want him getting impatient and coming up here to find out what's taking me." 

"I know. But..."

"No but. Get up and wash yourself, and then come have a bite. I promise the pork won't hurt you." 

The last few words come more clearly as the man walks down the hall toward my doorway. Like the others have, he stops there to look in on me. I shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I don't open them again until after I hear him hum to himself thoughtfully and step away.

"Cheeky." Much lower this time. His boy must have gotten out of bed and followed him into the hall. "He's up?"

"Nahne got him out of bed today so the Destin girl could change his sheets. There was blood on them. They'll have to scrub and scrub, I'm glad I don't do the laundry anymore."

"He walked, though."

"To the window. And to the bath, too. I heard Master in there with him earlier."

Another thoughtful noise. "He'll get put to work tonight, you can bet on it. Well enough to walk, well enough to work."

"With the cuffs still on?"

"You did it the same way, remember?"

"Yeah, but." The boy lowers his voice further. I lift my head a little, straining to hear. "I'm not weird like him. He devil-talks in his sleep."

"Devil-talks?" Amused. 

"It's not regular talking. It's raspy, kind of. But then Master talked to him and he talked back normal." 

"Mn!" A third voice, insistent. 

"All right, we're coming." The man sighs. "First nights are the worst. No matter how hard Garren works to break them, they always scream their first time working."

They retreat to the kitchen, too far for me to keep eavesdropping. I hear the clink of plates and a sudden mouthwatering smell: fresh bread. My stomach grumbles. If someone came to me right now and offered me my freedom, or a steaming hot slice of bread just out of the oven with marmalade slathered generously across it, I'm not sure which I'd choose.

But no one comes with bread, fresh or otherwise. I can clearly hear the three of them talking and eating, utensils scraping across plates, but nothing is brought to me, even when the man crosses by my door again, calling that he'll see them both tonight as he returns downstairs.

It's been a long time since just a few bites of breakfast, but the ache of hunger isn't so bad once I realize that a meal isn't coming for me. It feels familiar, like settling into an uncomfortable chair that I've sat in every day for years. At least it's a pain that I know.

Water is running again, and I hear the soft, rhythmic sweep of a broom. The square of lacy sunlight that has made a slow passage across my floor begins to climb the wall, blooming orange as it goes. The two boys traverse the hallway several times, each trip beginning with the creak of a cabinet door opening and ending with a click-thud as something is set down. My bit of sunlight flashes bright before quickly fading and soon after I catch the sharp scent of kerosene. 

The quiet boy comes into my room, takes the glass lamp down from the wall and refills it from a jug. He tosses a distracted smile at me and then leaves again, and a moment later the other boy stalks in, carrying a washbasin on his hip. 

"I guess you're working," he says, putting the basin down on the nightstand. There are several bottles of something rattling in the bottom of it; he fishes those out and sets them upright on the stand. "Do us all a favor: don't start yelling. It scares away the customers and then all of us are in trouble."

"Yelling?" I ask, unnerved at the boy's tone but relieved that someone is actually speaking to me. "...Working?"

The boy rolls his eyes. "I thought you'd gotten over being stupid. Working. *Working*-working."

The word makes less sense each time he says it. I fidget, twisting my hands so that the cuffs don't chafe against my wrists so much. "I... don't understand."

"Mother's tits." He leans over me, hands on his hips. "Master is going to let a man in here to fuck you." He draws out each syllable so his teeth flash at me, chipped and uneven. "You know what fucking is, don't you? When someone spreads your legs--"

"I know what fucking is."

He straightens up again, throwing his hands in the air in a mock celebration. "Oh, praise Her name, you actually *know* something. Well someone is going to come and fuck you, and you're not going to cry, or scream, or piss yourself. You're just gonna lay still until he gets done with you. Then you wait for the next one."

"You could have said 'whore,' I know what that means." It wasn't the first word I learned, but I'd heard the sailors say it so often that at first I'd thought it had something to do with the ship. "That man already did that to me. Fucking me. I can lay still."

"'That man' is my Master," the boy says, face reddening. "His name is Garren."

"I know. And your name is Cheeky, isn't it? I heard him talking to you this morning."

"Don't eavesdrop," Cheeky snaps. "If Master finds out you listen at doors he'll cane you."

I'm growing a little tired of this boy's bluster. The master would do what he was going to do to me. But, "The other boy," I say. "The quiet one. What's his name?"

Cheeky laughs, mouth twisting into a sneer. "Of course. Of course you like him, he doesn't mind how dumb you are."

I ignore his insults and ask again, "His name?" 

"His name is Nahne," Cheeky says, "and he doesn't belong to you."

It's almost impossible to get anything else out of Cheeky after that. He arranges the little vials on my nightstand, leaves and returns with a ewer full of steaming hot water and a stack of clean washrags. He fills the basin, sets the ewer next to it. "Don't make a fuss," he reminds me again before he leaves. "It bothers everyone."

I lay with my eyes closed as the room darkens, listening to the thump of bare feet on wooden floor boards. The water runs in the bathroom as the both of them bathe; Cheeky's arrogant voice echoes against the tiles, but I can't make out what he's saying. He'd heard the man he'd been with lament having to listen to a new boy cry out on his first night working, and then he'd turned and hammered the point home to me, several times. It tells me a great deal about who's in charge of who in this house.

I've got no doubt of where I fit in the hierarchy. Even if there are other boys chained up downstairs, they've got seniority. The thought is strangely funny to me and I let out a huff of hysterical laughter, heart pounding, tears stinging in my eyes. I can hear the master's heavy boots on the stairs.

There's a sudden silence down the hall as the sound of Garren's footsteps reach Nahne and Cheeky's ears. "He's coming up," Cheeky says. It sounds like he's standing in the doorway to the bathroom. "Did we get everything?"

The stairwell door opens. My stomach clenches and it takes several shaky breaths to begin to relax again. I relax further when Garren walks past my door without stopping. "I have a man downstairs for Nahne," he says. "Hasn't he finished washing yet?"

"He's almost done."

"Wil's coming up with him in a moment, see that he's done by then."

"Is the new boy working tonight?"

"And what business is that of yours?"

"I just wondered--"

"Get to bed."

"Yes sir." 

I know he's coming to see me next. Should I close my eyes or open them? Should I speak to him, or lay still? The door creaks open and a match flares and hisses. A moment later he's turning up the lamp, filling the dingy little room with a yellow glow. I stare at the sloped ceiling for as long as I can. His shadow falls over me like clouds over the sun and I look up at him, my world narrowing again to trembling helplessness. 

"Kept quiet nearly all day," Garren says, brow arching. "Wil says you were calm when he checked on you."

There's an expectant pause, but I don't know the words to this psalm. "Yes sir," I try finally.

"You're working tonight with the other boys," he says. "I trust Cheeky and his gossiping mouth have already told you what that means for you."

"Yes sir."

He considers me for a moment longer, a man examining a potato at the market, turning it over and over and looking for blight. "Your job here is very simple," he says. "Do as I tell you and do it well. Obey me, and your life here will be very pleasant."

Ah. I'm catching on to the rhythm. "And if I don't obey?"

He smiles. "Then I will find a way to remedy that."

I try to hide my reaction to that, keeping my expression blank. His smile widens for a moment as if he's going to laugh at me. "A man will come upstairs to make use of you," he says. "You will stay as quiet and calm as you've shown you can be, and afterwards you may come to the table to eat. The boys will want a more proper introduction than gaping at you from the doorway."

He leaves me then, pausing by the doorway to turn the lamp down low. The last of the light has bled from the sky and I lay in a near-dark room, staring at the tiny flame hovering behind the glass of the lamp's chimney. A tiny, burning star, leading me somewhere. Back to shore, or out into the waves, I don't know yet. But I've got no choice but to follow it.

Footsteps are coming up the stairs and the stairwell door creaks open. A man's voice, low and calm, and the hard clink of coins. I wait, tense, for someone to come into my room, but the man's come for someone else. Another door shuts, then a time of quiet before I begin to hear Nahne's sighs and the grunting of the man taking what he paid for.

Another man climbs the stairs, and another. "I expected you earlier." Cheeky, scolding and playful. "I hate it when you keep me waiting."

"Nahne's with someone," Garren says as Cheeky and his man shut themselves in another room. "Wil can take you, or I have another boy free."

"Another boy? Where?"

"Bound, still. But he's fresh and willing--"

"I can wait." A chuckle. "I can wait as long as it takes."

"Come and sit down, then. We'll have a drink to Nahne's health."

I let out a slow, careful sigh. Nahne is beautiful; Cheeky's high cheekbones and mobile mouth must attract people as well. Nahne finishes with his first customer and takes in the second with hardly a pause to catch his breath. Further down the hall I hear Cheeky laughing and then humming in pleasure. They're more experienced than I am, more desirable. Perhaps no one will want me tonight. Perhaps no one will want me at all.

Then my door opens, a slice of yellow lamplight falling across me. Cheeky's man from this afternoon is standing there-- Wil?-- and beside him is a man with the broad shoulders and thick, bare arms of a blacksmith. The man looks in at me for a moment, then turns to Wil and deposits a single coin into his outstretched palm.

Wil grins and gestures grandly, then shuts the door behind the man, closing us in the tiny room together. A shudder passes over me, but I concentrate on being still and quiet as the man comes to stand by the side of my bed. He reaches down with thick, sooty fingers and grabs me by the chin, squinting nearsightedly into my face. _"You're_ a long way from home," he huffs, and climbs onto the bed, undoing his belt.

My hands curl into fists and I concentrate on the stinging of my fingernails digging into my palms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me on tumblr @cyberphuck!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most seaports have more than a handful of brothels to choose from, but Portton in particular is known as a major hub of the slave trade and thus there are many more merchants and shop owners willing to open up a side business selling the services of their boys. A popular souvenir from Portton is a crudely made "handbook" listing the names, locations and specialties of all the city's houses of ill repute. Some, like Garren's, only have two or three boys working at a time while others employ dozens in luxurious apartments where their every need is provided for.

I lay on the bed, listening to the sounds down the hall and to the soft jingle of the man's belt as he dresses in the dark. Light sweeps into the room for an instant as the door opens and closes. Alone again, I turn my head, trying to wipe my cheek against my shoulder.

I see three more men this way. In between, someone-- sometimes Garren, sometimes Wil, when he isn't occupied himself-- comes to give me a brief wipe-down. Then I wait for someone else to come for me. 

It's late at night by the time the last man leaves. Nahne is in the bathroom humming to himself, a cheerful, aimless tune that is periodically drowned out by water splashing. Cheeky and Wil are talking somewhere. I sniff, then bite down on my bottom lip to keep from making any sound. *Don't make a fuss. It bothers everyone.*

"-- to get him up and clean," Wil says as he opens my door. "He was way more popular than I thought he'd be, he must be sopping by now." 

"It's just because they didn't want to wait for the room to clear," Cheeky says irritably. "Don't come late to the table. I'm hungry."

Wil swings the door wide and comes to my bedside, laying his hand gently on my chest. "Hey there," he whispers. "You awake?"

"Mm-hm."

"All done for the night," he says, unlocking my cuffs. "Master's said that you can get up to wash and then come to dinner. Need help up?"

I shake my head, even though my arms and legs ache from bracing myself on the bed all night, to say nothing of the throbbing in my thighs. The pain in my feet isn't as bad when I'm expecting it but Wil still has to catch me by the arm when I stumble. "Easy. You don't have to hurry, they'll wait for you."

Out in the hallway, I finally have a chance to get a good look at him: he’s at least a head taller than me, younger than Garren but older than anyone else who lives in the house. The yellow lamplight turns his bright blond hair to gold, and when he turns his head to look down at me, shadows jump across his face and settle into a scar that puts a deep divot in his bottom lip and down his chin. He smiles and the scar stretches oddly, his mouth a little lopsided. I look away, both because I don’t want to stare and because the gaze of an older man makes me want to twist out of his grip and scuttle away.

He leads me to the bathroom, sits me down and strips the bandages off my feet. "I'm going to run the water," he says, "and then show you how to clean yourself up this once. Tomorrow you can do it yourself."

So I find myself facing the wall, leaning on my elbows with my legs spread. I flinch when Wil comes close to me, but his hands are gentle and the water he's drawn is warm and feels clean dripping down my aching thighs. Kneeling beside me with one hand on my hip, he says, "My name's Wil."

"I know," I say to the wall.

"Oh, do you?" He chuckles. "I suppose there isn't much for you to do besides listen in."

"I'm-- "

"You don't have to be sorry with me. But if you're wise," he says, standing up, "you'll keep most of what you hear off of your tongue." 

"Yes sir." 

He reaches out to tip my chin up. "It's just Wil. And our Master hasn't decided what he'll call you yet, has he?" When I shake my head, he asks softly, "what did they call you before?"

I reach for it, groping around in the fog of my memories. I think... no. No, it's gone. "I don't remember."

"That's all right. You keep that to yourself, too." He winks at me. "Let’s dry you off.”

He holds a towel open for me. I hesitate, then step forward, trying not to cringe away when he wraps it around me. "Got to get this hair of yours cut," he says, fingering one of the dark curls against my shoulder. "You look like something that lures little lost children into the woods."

"There hasn't been anyone to cut it," I mumble, using the towel to dry my legs.

"Our Master'll fix you up." He kisses me, a brief touch of lips to temple. "Don't you worry. Now let's go into the kitchen before Cheeky starts gnawing on the table."

He offers me an arm and I lean against him, the two of us stepping out into the hall and crossing to the kitchen like a lord and his lady.

The kitchen is just large enough for the table and a square iron stove whose chimney disappears up through the ceiling. The heat from the coals inside it make the room hot and stuffy, but it's such a relief to see something new that I don't mind. Besides, as soon as we come through the doorway, all of my senses strain towards the set table, the plate of golden brown pasties, the covered basket that smells gloriously of fresh bread, even the condensation beading on a pitcher of cool water, the leaping rabbit on the label of the green glass bottle beside it.

Nahne and Cheeky are sitting at one side of the table; two empty chairs have been reserved for us. Garren is leaning against the wall, holding a laden plate in one hand. Wil pulls out a chair for me, furthest from the radiating heat of the stove. I sit down, reach for one of the pasties-- oozing juices onto the plate, slits cut into the top offering me a glimpse of meat and vegetables and the tender inside of the crust-- then hesitate, glancing up at Garren.

"You can wait until I introduce you," he says to me. "One shouldn't share meals with strangers."

Wil sits beside me. I see him smile at Cheeky, whose frown tightens for a moment. Nahne, his hair pinned into a loose bun to keep it off of the back of his neck, is sitting with his hands in his lap. His gaze lifts to mine and his mouth curls up in a smile. 

"Nahne, Wil, Cheeky, this is Darkling," Garren says. "He's already proven to be a hard worker. I trust you'll be nothing but kind to him."

Darkling. A name that curls on my tongue, that kinks sharply in the middle. The second syllable catches in my throat, choking me. No. "That's... not," I begin, then stop, eyebrows drawing together.

"It's what the slaver was calling you," Garren says. His tone is mild, but with an edge of warning in it. "And it is what we will call you. Is that clear?"

I duck my head. "Yes sir."

"There's a good boy. And would you like to introduce yourself?"

"I..." I look up, mouth dry. "My... my name is... Darkling."

"It's a pleasure," Wil says warmly, and Nahne's smile widens. Cheeky's expression assures me that the pleasure is all mine. 

"Master," Cheeky says, his voice just brushing a whine, "may we eat? It's already gotten so late."

"Yes, yes. Go on." Garren gestures at the table. "Eat. Then I expect you all to wash up and get to bed. --Except you, Nahne, come to my door when you're finished."

Cheeky waits until Garren's gone down the hall and shut his door behind him before leveling me with a glare that ought to kill me. Then he seizes the largest pasty off of the pile, puts it on his plate and starts in on it like I'm not there. Nahne takes one next, and Wil slides one onto my plate with a murmur of 'careful, it's hot.' 

I don't care how hot it is-- it smells delicious. I pick it up in both hands and bite into the tip of the flaky crust. Juice runs down my chin, dripping onto my bare thigh. The meat inside is tender, and though it's oddly spiced to my tongue and nearly too hot to chew I can't imagine anything better in the world. It's all I can do not to cram more into my mouth before I've swallowed my first bite. 

"Careful, careful," Wil says, putting a hand on my shoulder as I struggle to swallow. "Slow down a little. There's no rush."

"It's good," I say, breath coming out in a whoosh. "It's really good." I take another bite, smaller this time, but just as heavenly.

I know it's rude to keep clinging to the pasty as if someone's going to take it from me, but I'm loathe to put it down. Across the table, Cheeky has picked his open and is fishing out chunks of pork and quarantining them on the edge of his plate. 

Nahne hasn't started on his meal at all-- he's sitting with his hands in his lap, head bowed and eyes closed. Only the slight curl of that mouth, that serene expression could distract me from my meal. I watch him until he lifts his head; his eyes meet mine for a moment and I feel that pleasant shiver again as he daintily picks at his pasty with a fork. 

"Nahne puts us all to shame," Wil says, mouth full. "I don't ask for blessings at meals anymore except on holidays. If I'm sober enough to remember how to do it," he adds, winking at me.

"Blessings?" My food has caught my attention again. "Oh. Praying." 

_They'd whipped me when they'd caught me at it, told me they'd break my knees if they found me kneeling in the barn again. I'd promised never to do it again and hadn't. Later I'd wondered if they'd somehow heard me asking for help..._

"It's weird to do it at dinner," Cheeky mutters to his plate.

"It's harmless," Wil says. "And anything that keeps him happy is good enough for me." He reaches across the table for the green bottle. 

Cheeky wrinkles his nose at it. "Is that that sour wine that Gemmel gave me last week?"

"No, it's clover. It's sweet, you'll like it." 

Wil drags two squat ceramic cups toward him, then grunts as he pulls the cork out of the bottle. I catch a whiff of honey as he pours, and something else, something green and sweet and familiar. The memory darts away from me. "Darkling?" Wil asks, lifting my empty cup. "Try a little bit?"

I nod and soon I'm nose-deep in my cup, eyes closing as I inhale the heady scent-- sweetness and summer and wine. It tastes as sweet as it smells. I drain my cup in one go and Wil pours Cheeky and me another. He offers a cup to Nahne, who makes a face and shakes his head. 

I finish most of my pasty, leaving just one burnt end and a mound of crumbs. Wil allows me one more cup of wine and then puts the bottle out of my reach. "You're certainly going to sleep well tonight," he says. 

"Mm." My eyes have already grown heavy. The day, which had been lagging behind during dinner, is suddenly piling up on my shoulders. Still, the wine's made me feel warm and pleasant. I yawn, head dipping forward, and I begin to contemplate just laying my head down on the table and going to sleep.

"Cheeky, Nahne," Wil says as he stands up, "the dishes. Nahne, don't forget that Master's asked for you tonight. And you," he ruffles a hand through my hair. "I think you're done for the night."

Cheeky hunches his shoulders, stabbing at an end crust with his fork. "He ought to be helping," he mutters.

Wil takes my elbow and helps me to my feet. "You're right, Chee. Darkling'll wash the dishes and I'll strap *you* to the bed. He certainly complains a lot less than you do."

Cheeky clatters the plates into a stack, hard enough to make me flinch, and stomps out of the kitchen. Wil shakes his head. "That boy acts like he likes being slapped," he says. "Not a teaspoon of sense in him. Come on, now, hold onto me so you don't fall asleep standing up."

I'm half-led, half-carried back down the hall and to my bed. The flat, uncomfortable mattress is badly in need of re-stuffing, but tonight I'd gladly lay down in the street if I could. My eyes are already closing as Wil slips the cuffs back around my wrists. I feel him come close to kiss my cheek, one hand coming to rest on my thigh. "Tomorrow won't be so hard," he promises me. "Sleep well, Darkling."

I dream of a close, hot darkness, surrounded by warm bodies and the creak of wooden planking as it gently rocks back and forth.

-

The window latch clicks. I take a deeper breath, shifting in bed. As the window creaks open, I feel a cool, damp breeze move through the room, carrying the scent of rain. 

A deep sigh, a hum of contentment. I look up, twisting so I can see the corner of the window. "...Nahne?"

I hear him pad barefooted toward me and in a moment he's smiling down at me. The weak light from the window turns his skin to porcelain, a perfect, lovely doll, expertly crafted. I imagine him dressed in navy and white, clutched close to someone's chest-- a prized possession, the centerpiece of an expensive collection.

"Good morning," I say softly.

Nahne brushes a curl of hair away from my temple, then lets his fingers trace a line down my cheek, dipping beneath my jaw and down to my collar bone. My breath catches, heat kindling within me. He comes close, pressing his lips to my cheek, then the corner of my mouth, and then I'm turning my head to meet his kiss.

Oh, he's warm, his lips are soft, and when he opens his mouth against mine I taste the slick sweetness of his tongue. He pulls away for a moment-- I let out a shaky breath-- and then kisses me again. I'm dizzy with it, his closeness, this sudden intimacy, and I don't want it to stop. 

I'm panting when he breaks away from me again. He stays close, one hand on my chest as if to feel the pounding of my heart, and hums a little "Mm" against my ear before straightening up. I strain against my cuffs as he steps away from the edge of the bed, but he goes to the door without looking back.

I close my eyes, reveling in the tingling of my lips and the taste of him in my mouth as I listen to him light the stove in the kitchen. My cock is half-hard against my thigh and I try not to imagine Nahne's slender fingers wrapped around it, his soft mouth kissing the tip. Sucking gently, slowly, his head bobbing down and back up. Looking up at me through his eyelashes, my come dripping from his bottom lip.

All I can do is try to breathe, reminding myself that if Garren comes to see me in this condition he'll take advantage of it. Wringing a painful orgasm from me after he fucks me, leaving me feeling filthy and used. The thought does a great deal toward cooling me off.

It's hard not to think of Nahne, though, listening to him half-singing wandering tunes as he works. He seems happy here, and freer than Cheeky, who I think would balk at every order if it didn't put him in danger. He whines enough to Wil, anyway, while Nahne goes about his day without any kind of complaint. Nor any words at all.

I hadn't spoken either, the first days I'd been here. Maybe Nahne just doesn't have much to say. 

The baker is standing beneath my window again, calling out to passers by that her rolls are fresher and plumper than anyone else's in town. In the hallway, someone yawns loudly-- I can already recognize that irritated mumble as Cheeky. And the house begins to wake, bit by bit, as the sky lightens outside, the early sun creeping through the window along with the sounds of people and horses and gulls. I hear Wil's soft, affectionate "good morning, love," and the rustle of the curtains in the window as the sea breeze ambles through.

The simple sound of the door at the end of the hall creaking open scatters all other sound, silvery fish darting away from a tossed pebble, leaving a pool of silence through which Garren's boots tread. 

I don't know I've been holding my breath until I'm aching for air. I almost expect my indrawn gasp to echo through the house. Instead, it's small, muffled. Far away, the others greet their Master. The world slowly moves back into rhythm, though with an extra, shivery note of caution. 

My door moves slightly when he pauses to look in on me; I tip my head back and stay still, hoping he'll think I'm still sleeping. I know he'll have to come for me eventually, bringing food or pain or abuse. But for now, he returns to the kitchen to eat and I remain in bed, clinging to the memory of Nahne's brief closeness.

I have not-memories of being touched gently, held close, a hand cradling my head. The light had made me sleepy-- bright sunlight, filtering green through the trees and dappling across my skin. Hot, flickering firelight, making me feel lazy and content. I had those arms, that lap, any time I wanted it. 

It comes with an ache, deep in my stomach. Those times are gone, the gentleness dwindling over years and miles until a morning kiss and the feel of cool, slender hands cupping my face is the only thing within my reach. He might have hurt me-- he might still. But I'll keep this clear, pleasant memory close to me where it can't be taken away.

The smell of food outstrips my fear of Garren when he finally comes into the room. A moment for him to undo my cuffs, and I'm sitting stiffly up to a plate of toasted bread and sweet sausage. I'm eyeing the marmalade spread on the bread, but he offers me a sausage first. "You performed better than anyone expected last night," he says, watching me bite into the end of the sausage and then wipe grease from my bottom lip as I chew. "No training at all, but you were quiet and obedient, and that's all that most men ask for when coming here. I'm very pleased with you."

I flick a glance up at him, then offer an uncertain, "Thank you."

"Yes, you have potential. Here," he says, picking up the other sausage, "Take this. In your mouth," he chuckles when I reach for it. As I wrap my lips around it, he strokes his free hand across my hair, making me flinch. I know what he wants me to do. When he gently pushes down on the back of my head, I lean forward, eyes closing. I feel his fingers on the nape of my neck, then my back, between my shoulders. 

I'm half afraid that he'll move from this pantomime to demanding the real thing, but he lets me go after only a few seconds, eyes narrowed in thought. I bite into the sausage a little harder than I probably have to. The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement. "I know you don't want to stay bound to the bed forever. Learn to use those eyes to make someone want you," he says, "and your body to make them want to come back, and you'll live quite well here." 

He puts the plate in my lap and stands. "Now that I've seen you past that fever, I've got to go back to my work. I'm sure everyone in the neighborhood has perished of gout while I've been gone," he sighs. "Wil will look after you. He'll demand much less of you than I would, but see that you mind him. I don't want to hear that you've given him any trouble."

I nod. "Yes sir."

"Very nice." He goes to the door. "I'll see you this evening, Darkling."

The joy of uninterrupted marmalade is all I can think of as he leaves, so it takes me several moments alone and licking stickiness off of my fingers before I realize he's left me unbound. I'm not stupid enough to think that this means I'll have a chance to run away-- unless I want to go out the window, I'll still have to go out into the hall and down the stairs, probably straight into Garren's arms like a rabbit into a trap. 

Maybe he's testing me. Maybe he's just forgotten. I watch the door as I finish my meal, dragging bits of toast around my plate until I've swept up every smear of salt or sweetness. Then, carefully, I slide my legs out of bed and stand up.

The pain and swelling in my feet has been reduced to a dull ache, sharper if I lean too much weight to one side. My legs are still sore, as are my shoulders from laying bound, but I can feel strength returning to me, particularly after a night's drink-sodden sleep and a belly full of breakfast.

A smell of fried sausage, thick and clinging, still lingers out in the hallway-- along with Nahne, who's wiggling into a clean shirt as he steps out of the bathroom. His head pops out of the collar and he pulls the long tail of his hair free after it. He's barefooted, his fingers and toes red from scrubbing in hot water. 

When he looks up and sees me, his face splits into a delighted grin and he leaps forward to throw his arms around me, nearly making me drop my empty plate. He presses his lips to my cheek and I wonder how much trouble I'll be in, really, if I fling the plate down in order to have both hands free to hold him with. But in the very next breath he's taken it from me, bringing it with him into the kitchen with me following behind. 

There's nothing between us but a few kisses and his smile, which I remind myself he isn't exactly stingy with. His humming while he works, a brief moment of prayer at the table last night. So I shouldn't care that the shirt he's put on is lightly woven and that I can clearly see the outline of his body through it as he stands in front of the window and reaches to a shelf just above it to take down a half loaf of bread. I shouldn't be thinking of turning him around and seeing if he'll kiss me again, even though I very much think he would. 

I should just sit at the table, and thank him when he brings my plate back to me with two fresh pieces of bread on it. The jar of marmalade with the little silver spoon in it requires something more than thanks, but I'm limited to what I have. 

I thought he'd take the seat across from me, but he sits right beside me, gesturing at the bread and nodding when I pick it up to take a bite. It's a little unnerving, eating with someone staring at me from so close, but I'm not stupid enough to pass up a few extra bites of breakfast, especially since there'd been a long stretch of time between breakfast and dinner yesterday. 

"What are _you_ doing out here?" 

Oh. Good.

Cheeky is in the doorway, his sneer baring his teeth. I feel like I've ventured too close to a dog's bone. I set down the last sticky corner of my bread and open my mouth to explain myself, but Cheeky cuts me off: "Wil! _Wil!_ He's trying to run away!"

There's an answering voice somewhere down the hall, muffled. I tense. Cheeky's blocking the only exit, keeping me from scrambling back to my bed. Wil had been kind enough last night, the way someone would be kind to a stray dog. I don't know how he'll react to that pup sniffing around where it shouldn't be. 

Cheeky calls again, louder, and the answer sounds more annoyed. Nahne stands up, jaw tight, and grabs Cheeky by the wrist, shaking his head. Cheeky tries to pull away, but Nahne holds fast. "He's supposed to stay in the bed," Cheeky says as Nahne yanks at his arm. "Locked up. We don't need him out here, Nahne. _You_ don't need him."

Nahne's expression hardens. "He's just going to ruin things," Cheeky says, casting a sulky look at me. "We were fine by ourselves. He's going to ruin everything."

"Alright, what's so-- Cheeky, move out of the way." Wil pokes his head into the doorway, blond eyebrows drawn together. "Are the two of you fighting?"

"It's that dock slave," Cheeky says. "He's trying to run."

"He's trying to run," Wil repeats, looking at me.

I sit as still on the chair as I can.

"Well he's come out of bed without permission." Cheeky looks away. "He's already making trouble, being disobedient."

Wil closes his eyes for a moment, and his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh. "Darkling," he says, "why are you out of bed?"

"I--" my voice catches in my throat. I swallow. "I came to return my breakfast plate. Garren left my wrists free."

Cheeky puffs up, nostrils flaring. Wil puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You ought to have started on the beds by now," he says. "Go and get that done. Get to hollering again and I'll give you something to holler about."

"But--"

Wil's eyes narrow. There's a moment where they simply look at each other. I wince, waiting for Wil to strike out. But Cheeky moves instead, squeezing past him out the door and slinking away. Satisfied, Wil's gaze turns to fall on me, and I shrink down.

"You're going back to bed," he says, and holds out a hand. I stare at it, unsure of what he wants, then finally take it. His fingers close around my wrist and he pulls me to my feet and out the door. I turn my head and catch a last glimpse of Nahne, a frown turning his pretty mouth down.

Wil closes the cuffs around my wrists much more loosely than usual, then stands looking down at me, arms crossed. I look up into his face, but can't read his expression, one corner of his mouth quirked, pale lashes low as he looks down at me. 

"I really only wanted to return the plate," I offer in a small voice. 

The quirk of his mouth turns into a smile. "I know you did. And I know that if your Master had caught you out of bed, he'd have caned you." He reaches out to tap his fingers against the tip of my nose. "Your Master. Not 'Garren.' Do you understand?"

I do understand. But I can't make my mouth say it. 

"Still digging in your heels a little," Wil says. "You'll come around one way or another. If you're obedient, Master'll take very good care of you. If you're not," he shrugs. "Master's temper is like a thunderstorm. Sometimes you see it coming from a long way away. Other times it comes out of the blue and it hits you-- pop-- before you even know what happened." His fist comes up to nudge my jaw, not hard enough to hurt, but enough that his meaning is clear. "He says you're clever. Prove him right."

I turn my gaze away from his, exhaling through my nostrils. Wil laughs. "Clever, and stubborn," he says. "No wonder he likes you. Should I tell him about your little excursion?"

That's a question with a hook in it. There's nothing to do but let it snag and pull me where he wants me to go. "No," I respond quietly.

"No," he agrees. "No, I don't think I will. You weren't trying to run away. Just spending a little time with Nahne in the kitchen." His fingers curl under my chin, thumb sweeping across my lips, making them tingle with his touch.

"So long as I'm looking after you, I'll make sure you get what you need. You can't spend every hour strapped to the bed; I can make sure you get up to stretch once in a while. That's as long as I can trust you not to make any trouble." He leans closer to me. "I can trust you, can't I, Darkling?"

When I don't answer, he gently pushes the tip of his thumb into my mouth. My heart beats a little faster. I tip my head back, close my eyes. The ball of his thumb presses down on my tongue. Suddenly I'm sucking on it, letting go only so he can replace it with two fingers, thrusting nearly deep enough to make me gag. Then he's cupping my cheek again, turning my face toward his for a kiss.

His kiss is different than Nahne's: a claiming, holding me still with one hand and tilting his head to deepen the kiss as he likes. The first surge of my arousal surprises me, and the second, stronger and hotter, follows the touch of Wil's tongue against my throat. I give a shivering little sigh and he chuckles, the vibration of his voice tickling my skin. I squirm as he traces his fingers down my sides, unable to keep myself from arching into him. 

He turns his head to put his lips to my ear and asks, "Do you want me to fuck you?"

I still don't reply, but my body has already been shouting its answer to him-- skin hot, breath coming shorter and faster, nipples hard against his teasing fingertips. When his hand finally makes its way down to my cock my hips buck, seeking friction against his palm. His fingers wrap around my shaft and abruptly my world is centered around the place where we touch, the pleasure building with each stroke.

I bend my knees, getting my feet underneath me and lifting my hips off of the bed. I want him to stroke me faster but instead he grips me tighter, his hand moving slowly, keeping me from leaping too quickly to where I want to be. His thumb presses into the slit at the head of my cock and I strangle on a surprised moan. 

"If our Master were to find out," Wil says. "that I was making use of you-- that I was fucking you without his permission, he'd beat me bloody." He slides his free hand under my head, fingers threading through my hair. "You don't want that, do you? Because as soon as he was done with me, he'd turn on you. For liking it."

"Please," I whimper. 

"What will I tell Master," Wil murmurs, "that you asked so sweetly for it? That I did this to you--" his thumb moves over my slit again-- "and you moaned and bucked like the pretty little whore you are?"

I'm close, inching closer with every pass of his hand. "Yes--"

"Maybe we'll just keep this secret," Wil smirks. "That I know how to touch you the way you like it. That I know how to make you beg."

My cock twitches hard and I'm coming, my abdomen tensing and quivering with each white, hot spurt. Wil keeps stroking, my come dripping across his fingers and down his wrist, until I whine in discomfort and he relinquishes his grip on me. I feel empty, at peace, my eyes fluttering shut as my breathing slows.

"That's what you needed," Wil says, and he kisses my forehead. "Just a bit of release. I'll take what you owe me another time."

And I want him to, I realize, opening my eyes again to watch him turn from the bed and walk back to the door. I'm sated for now but my skin still tingles where he's touched me and I want him to touch me again. I want that rush again, the hard twist of pleasure as I come. 

What will I do to get it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (you leave a comment. I feel happiness.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chastity City may be a beautiful, flourishing metropolis, but fortunes are made down at the docks in Portton. Many merchants and minor nobles have grand, sprawling homes in the green hills above the bay.

I stretch my arms above my head, one knee still drawn up. 

My come is dripping warm and thick down my side and I'm staring upwards, watching the long, jagged crack in the ceiling come back into focus. I feel like I've been laying here all afternoon, but it must have only been for the space of a few long breaths: I can still see Wil out of the corner of my eye. He's standing near the door with his back to me, one hand on his hip. 

"Spying?" A smile curls the last syllable.

"No." Cheeky's reply is halfway between scoff and sulk. "He was being so loud I was afraid Master would hear."

"Not at this time of the day. The noise from the street makes it hard to hear yourself think down there, let alone listen in on a whore's kitten mewls. _You,_ on the other hand--"

"I have chores to do."

"--I could make you squeal loud enough to make that deaf cobbler cover his ears."

Cheeky begins to reply, then makes a wordless sound of complaint; I turn my head to find the two of them crowded in the doorway. With one hand pinned above his head and his eyes shut tight, Cheeky doesn't look like he's asked for Wil's rough kisses, nor the hand undoing the ties on his pants. 

"No," Cheeky whines when he manages to break away. "You're going to make me stink like he does."

"Come to the bath, then."

"I told you, I have--" 

A sharp gasp, coming back out in an unhappy _mmf._ Wil pulls away from Cheeky's throat and I can see the livid red mark his mouth has left. Cheeky's pants have slipped down to his thighs, exposing bony hips and his cock growing hard in Wil's groping hand. "That's not so bad," Wil murmurs. "Is it?"

"I have to-- Master wants me to--"

"Let Nahne do it."

Wil takes Cheeky's shoulders, turns him to face the wall. Cheeky stiffens. "I don't--"

"Yes you do." Wil laughs. "Master's right about you, Chee. Surly and disobedient. I've been telling him that you'll mellow if he puts you on day work for a few months."

"Wil..."

"Relax."

Cheeky's fingers curl into themselves; he hangs his head, shoulders moving in time with his quickening breaths. I watch the muscles in Wil's back tense under his shirt, watch his grip on Cheeky's hips tighten. His groan is long and low, dripping in satisfaction.

As Wil moves Cheeky makes a strangled noise, a moan half muffled into his fist. I turn my head to look away and end up letting my eyes follow the crack in the ceiling plaster again as Cheeky's whimpers and the sound of skin striking skin paint a vivid picture of what Wil is doing to him. It doesn't take long for the noises Cheeky makes to soften, take on a more needy, pleading tone and I wonder how often they do this, if Nahne has ever been the one watching while they struggle in the hallway. Maybe it's all a game of pretend, one that Cheeky likes.

Maybe it's a game of pretending Cheeky has a choice of liking it or not.

But Cheeky finds his release easily, in a wavering cry that's silenced in Wil's hand. Wil's voice growls low and through clenched teeth, that's right, that's what you wanted, that's what you needed. His short, tight _"fuck"_ is followed by a gasp and then a whoosh of a sigh like a man setting down a heavy burden. 

"Did you--?" Cheeky's voice edges toward alarm. 

"It's all right, I can get you cleaned up." A kiss. "Like it never happened. Go wait for me in the bath."

"It's like you _want_ to get caught," Cheeky grumbles.

Wil's voice hardens. "I said go and wait for me. Don't make me tell you again."

I look over at him as he approaches me. His temples are dark with sweat, color still in his lips and cheeks. It makes him more handsome, even when the eye lingers on the scar forking out of his mouth like a snake's tongue.

I think I want him to kiss me again. And he does-- on my forehead, smoothing my hair back. "When I'm done with Chee," he says, "I'll let you up so you can wash. He doesn't like an audience."

He leaves me without another word, except a curt "Get back to your chores" to Nahne, who's peering through the doorway. Nahne's expression is hard to interpret: not fear or dislike, but a sort of studied blankness, making his face into a hard mask.

Washed and dried and tied down again, I feel boredom begin to curl around me. As the morning rolls into a warm, sleepy afternoon, I find that if I’m still enough and listen hard enough, I can hear the soft jingle of a bell downstairs. Voices; Garren's now-familiar rumble as well as others I don't recognize. Outside my door it's much easier to hear what's going on. Cheeky sighing and grumbling above the gurgle of water in the bathroom; Nahne humming to himself, using the rhythm of a scrub brush against the floor to keep time. 

I'm not looking forward to what's going to happen when night falls and men begin to come up the stairs to use me. But laying here thinking of it is nearly as bad, especially when Wil tells Cheeky and Nahne to start getting the rooms in order. With every lamp topped off and every basin filled with hot water, night creeps closer. Then Garren is coming up the stairs, his heavy footsteps sounding like the last few seconds of peace ticking away.

“--would have come earlier, but I know you feel about setting my own hours.”

A man’s voice-- not Garren’s, but smoother, more cultured, and one that sets Nahne squealing and running down the hallway to throw the stairwell door open. I hear a collision of bodies, Garren cursing, and the other man laughing breathlessly. "Get off, get _off,_ go back to your room and wait so I can at least _pretend_ I've taught you any manners," Garren snaps. 

"Oh, Garren, don't scold him. I haven't had time to see him in weeks." A chuckle. "If I were a younger man, I might have taken the stairs two at a time, whether or not you'd given me permission!"

"It's not that I don't welcome your business, Aure, just that I can't guarantee that Nahne is _ready_ for you in the middle of the day. He's got chores to take care of."

"Ooh, Nahne." A very different tone of voice, cooing and affectionate. "Come and live with me, you'll never have to hunch over a washboard again. Has your Master set a sale price for you yet? No? What about his new boy, hm, the one Malphas was going on about?"

"It's a little early to be talking about selling a boy I've only had a week," Garren scoffs. "He isn't even out of bed yet. He doesn't have much in the way of training."

"But quite a bit of natural talent, I'll bet." 

"That remains to be seen."

"You wouldn't have paid for him if he didn't."

They've come closer, and as so many others have done, are standing outside my doorway to look in on me. Garren moves aside to make room for his guest to look at me, and he steps through the doorway and turns up the lamp, making me flinch. By the time my eyes adjust to the light, he's standing beside my bed with Nahne hanging off one arm like something he's purchased from a market stall.

He's tall, this man, but not so broad as Garren is, and dressed in much finer clothes, gold buttons and ruby cufflinks peeking out from beneath the hems of his black coat. His dark hair has gold in it, too: woven in around a long, heavy braid that hangs over one shoulder. His skin, smooth and rich, shouts of luxury. A ring flashes on his finger as he reaches for me and for a slice of a second I see myself reflected in its flat black face.

He touches my hair, lightly, and then pulls away. "Do you have a name yet?" 

I swallow, transfixed by his gaze. "Yes."

"Well? What will I call you?"

My mouth opens and closes; I feel as if I'm reaching for something that isn't there, feeling my hand close on empty space where something's always been. Something else pushes up against my seeking, ugly and cumbersome. "Darkling."

"Darkling," he says, and my not-name comes back to me sweeter, more palatable. "Darkling. Yes, that sounds like something Garren would choose." 

He stands and looks at me a few moments longer, reaching up to stroke the end of his braid against the ball of his thumb. It's Nahne who breaks him out of his thoughts, tugging on his arm and whining impatiently. The man shakes his head, smiling, and lets himself be led back to the door where Garren waits. A bubble of tension pops as he leaves the room and I'm left blinking stars out of my eyes.

Garren waits until Nahne and his man have retreated to somewhere private, then comes to stand and look down at me as his guest had. He raises his hand as well, then slaps me hard across the face with it. I gasp in pain, but before I can cry out he seizes me by the chin and forces me to look up at him. "You," he says lowly, "will never be anything that interests that man. But if Aure Naga ever asks you for anything, you're to give it to him, do you understand? I don't care what it is. If he tells you to cut off your foot so he can fuck the stump, you had better be in the kitchen sharpening a knife."

He releases me and I manage to choke out a "yes, sir" with tears stinging my eyes. He shuts the window, draws the curtains, and shoots me another terrifying glare before returning to the hallway to greet my first customer.  
The man who comes to sweat and pant on top of me is enthusiastic if not particularly gentle. I can feel the sheets riding up beneath me with every thrust and vainly try to brace my kneels against the mattress. Shifting to do it arches my back for a moment, though, and the man rasps out a wine-scented chuckle. "You like that, do you? You can have all you-- _want--"_ And he finds some hidden reserve of frantic energy, fucking me hard and fast, grunting in time as he comes to climax.

When the man leaves, Wil slips in to gently wipe me down. "End of the week," he murmurs, the warm cloth working between my legs. "Everyone's just got paid. It's going to be a busy night."

The second man to come is a sailor, his burly arms tattooed to the elbows with images of stars and ship's anchors and lovely women with fish tails instead of legs. He loosens his shirt and there are tattoos on his chest, too, these older and faded and shot through with the sort of scars a man in a dangerous profession might have. It's hard to see them properly in the dark and occupied as we are, but they look like scriptures, done in small, tight letters in a language I don't understand. He finishes with me and washes himself with water from the basin, then leaves before I can decide if I want to ask him what they mean.

Even after he's gone, I lay and imagine the shape of the tattoos in my head. A ship was a dangerous place: a sailor would want protection, would want something to watch over him. Not the cold stars, or the hungry sea, but something more. _Prayers,_ I think, then, _a holy book._ I can't remember any sailor carrying a prayer book, but I know I've seen them somewhere. A soft cover, pages made of cloth, curving letters picked out in gold thread that I tickled my fingertips over. We had kept it wrapped in a shroud, sleeping inside a heavy wooden chest. I draw a deep breath, savoring the sweet smell of cedar and lavender.

"I've got six wen. What can I...?"

"You ought to come to me first," Garren says, sounding annoyed. "Not when you're fingering the bottom of your purse."

"It's not that. I'm not the type to spend all my money on whores, you know."

A chuckle. "Then why are you here?"

"Six wen. What do you have?"

"In there-- _ah-ah,_ money first. There. Half an hour and no longer. And the next time you come here, remember that my services cost _coin,_ Shan."

"I know, I know." The door opens and a man's silhouette looms black against the light in the hall. "Always so friendly and welcoming," he mutters as he lets himself in and shuts the door behind him. "Not irritable or greedy at all. I don't know why I come here." 

He turns up the lamp, and I get my first glimpse of him: mousy and slender, wearing glasses rimmed in silver. His clothes are much more well made than those of the other men that I've seen, though not as elegant as Naga's. He comes close, peering nearsightedly down at me, and I can see swirling black embroidery around the hems of his white shirt. 

He watches me staring at him, then clears his throat and says, "Um. Hello."

"Hello," I reply. 

"You're quite a pretty little thing, aren't you?" The man's slender fingers trace the bridge of my nose, the shape of my chin, "Look at your eyes. What a lovely color!"

I've never had a customer say something to me before expecting an answer, but I feel as though this man is speaking to me, not at me. Still, my "Thank you" feels awkward. He's paid for my time, it's not as if he needs to get to know me first. 

He seems to feel my discomfort, but it doesn’t do anything to smooth the tension between us. Instead, he perches on the edge of my bed. “I’ve never--” he begins, then swallows. “I mean, the other times I’ve come here, it’s never been with someone… tied to the bed.”

“Undo my cuffs,” I suggest.

A wry smile. "How did I guess you were going to ask me that? And you can guess what I'll say back to you. I don't have the key, unfortunately, and even if I did, I bet both of us would run afoul of your Master if he came in here to find you up without his permission."

I shrug. "That's true."

"So you... do you have a name?" He winces, then goes on, "I mean of course you do, but-- what is it?" 

I smile a little. "Garren calls me 'Darkling.'"

"Darkling," he hums. "That's pretty. Do you like it?"

"It's all I have."

"My name is Ouahe," he says, the strange combination of syllables sounding like a sigh. "But almost no one calls me that. Besides my mother, anyway. People use my last name, Shan."

"Mister Shan?"

"No, no, not 'mister,' that makes me sound like an old man. Just Shan." 

I meet his eyes, but he looks away after a moment. "It's nice to meet you," I say. "Shan."

"If you don't mind..." Shan begins shyly.

I feel a tension begin in my belly, wanting me to curl into myself. "You paid," I say.

"You have beautiful skin," Shan says. "A much different tone than I usually see here in Portton. There's a warmth to it, especially in your cheeks." He spreads his hands across my chest, thumbs touching, then slides one hand under my arm, raising goosebumps on my skin. "I've got a bolt of cloth in my workshop that I've been saving. It's such a peculiar green-yellow that I couldn't think of a use for it until I saw you." His hands move to my hips, measuring again. "A color like that would make the society ladies look awful, but it would be beautiful on you."

"Your... workshop?"

"I'm a tailor," he says. "Well, honestly I spend most of my days mending torn skirts and bringing out the waists in fat mens' trousers. But it's the dresses I love to make, when I have the time and money to spare. I've made a few things here and there for merchants' daughters and one very lovely piece in blue for Lady Sayne-- do you know her? She does things with horses, I think. She wore it to a party that was being thrown by Lord Pfrosh for..." 

He stops, tipping his head to one side. "You don't know who any of those people are, do you."

"I know what a dress is," I offer, and he laughs.

"What I meant to say was," Shan says, "that I would like... that is, if you wouldn't mind... I would like to make a dress for you."

Stunned and perplexed, I'm uncertain what to say at all. There's no chance he might have mistaken me for a girl, not with how far his hands had strayed while measuring me. But he's been kind, and I have to admit I find his awkwardness a little charming. I don't see the harm-- it's not as if I have any other clothes. "Okay," I say, and take a little pleasure in the way his face lights up. "Will you bring it to me? When you're done?"

"Oh Darkling." He puts his hands on my shoulders. "Yes. Yes, of course I will. And I promise you'll look beautiful in it."

"I've never worn a dress before," I say, watching his expression. "You'll help me put it on?"

I can see the thought of lacing me into one of his creations move through him, bringing him down and closer to me. He hesitates, breath ragged. His lips brush mine, softly, and then he's kissing me with all the fervor of a man drunk on the fantasy he's woven for himself.

His kisses-- on my mouth, my cheeks, down my throat and to my shoulders-- are telling me that something’s different, that he’s going to want something more from me than just laying still while he fucks me. He flicks his tongue against my nipple and I make a smaller sound, the edge of a sigh. Yes. 

I move into his touch as he makes an artist’s exploration of my body, hands feeling the softness of my thighs and the way my belly goes taut when his fingertips brush my cock. It’s good to be admired, to be handled gently, and an anticipation is building in me, coming to a head when he gently parts my legs, leans down to kiss me again as he enters me. 

It’s strange, feeling his warmth and pressure inside me instead of the pain that I’m used to, but I find myself liking it more and more, and liking Shan’s soft murmurs of appreciation, of praise, rising as he rises to climax. He speaks my name like a blessing as he comes inside of me, hips jerking.

He lays beside me then, his body relaxing into mine. I turn my head to look at him and he presses his forehead against mine, looking into my eyes as his breath evens out. He licks his lips, opens his mouth to say something.

“Your time is up,” Garren says from the door. “And then some. You’ll owe me two more wen.”

Shan starts, then lifts himself up onto one elbow to look at where Garren is standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “I’m getting up. Are you going to stand there and watch me put my pants on?”

“Hurry up,” Garren growls, shutting the door.

Shan turns back to me, pecking a kiss against my lips. “I can’t stay,” he says. “But I’ll come back. I promise.”

“With my dress,” I remind him, smiling.

“With your dress,” he agrees as he gets out of bed.

I watch him dress in silence, carefully lining up buttons and smoothing his collar down. He glances over, sees me staring at him, and looks away, a blush reddening his cheeks. “If you look at everyone like that,” he says, “you’re going to be very popular.”

“Come back soon,” I tell him. “I’ll wait for you.”  
I liked it, I want to say. I didn’t know it could be like that. I didn’t know anyone could be like that. But he’s gone to the door and let himself out, running straight into Garren, standing like a sentinel just a step into the hallway.

“Two wen,” Garren says. “I don’t give credit.”

I hear a jingle of coins. “That boy,” Shan says, voice pitched low. “Will he be for sale?”

Garren snorts. “Not to you.”

After seeing Shan down the stairs, Garren comes into my room to undo my cuffs. "Go and get yourself properly washed," he says as I sit up. Then: "You've done very well tonight, Darkling."

I keep my head down. "Thank you."

"But if you're going to make someone lust after you," he says, "be sure it's someone rich. Not a broke seamstress."

"He's a tailor," I say to the floor.

"And you're a whore. Get going."

Someone's voice is echoing in the hallway as I make my way down to the bath: it's Nahne, his whimpering moans building to a crescendo, pausing only to pant frantically for breath before crying out in pleasure again. I pause outside his door, leaning on the wall to listen to him. This close, I can hear the rhythmic creak of the bed and his customer's grunts as well, but it's Nahne's voice I want. I close my eyes, enjoying every moan, waiting to hear him come.

Garren shoves me forward, sending me stumbling down the hallway. "I told you to wash. I and hope not to have to tell you to mind your own business."

I take a few steps toward the bath. Nahne is on the edge, nearly close enough. I imagine him with his head thrown back, chest heaving, fingers fisted in the sheets. Another shuffling step, trying to keep moving without going too far. 

Garren takes me by the shoulder and spins me around, pushing me against the wall. "I dislike," he breaths, face very close to mine, "having to repeat myself."

"I'm sorry-- I was--"

"I know what you were doing. And I know what you want." A nasty smile. "You want what everyone wants. No man can look at Nahne and not imagine what that pretty mouth would feel like wrapped around his cock. And any man can have him," he says, "if he has the coin for it." 

He pins me with one hand on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I look anywhere but at him, heart pounding. "If I find you stealing what other men pay good money for, I'm going to whip you bloody," Garren says. "You can still work with stripes down your back."

I try to nod, shaking so hard that I think Garren is the only thing holding me upright. He releases me and I sag against the wall, trying to get my breath back. "Now go," he says, "and wash that man's come out of you."

I'm afraid my legs are going to come out from under me before I can get to the bath, but I make it somehow, sitting down on the stool and waiting for my heart to stop hammering. 

It seems ages before the bathroom really comes into focus, and when it does I find Cheeky standing by the tub, staring at me. He has a wet cloth pressed against his neck. When he finally turns his shoulder to me and lifts it off, I see a dark, round bruise underneath. He rubs it, wincing, then shoots another glare at me and moves to the opposite corner of the bathroom to fill a basin from the hot water tap.

“I won’t tell him,” I offer.

He doesn’t look at me.

I say, “About you and Wil.”

The look he gives me ought to strike me dead. “I make him money,” he snarls. “It’d be your word against mine, and you’re still so useless that he would probably just kill you.” He grips the basin harder; the water inside trembles in tiny waves from rim to rim. “I’ve seen him do it.”

“I said--”

“Why don’t you stop talking and wash yourself,” he says, taking his basin to the tub and balancing it on the edge. “You smell like a gutter.”

He turns away from me, dumping water over his shoulders and pretending I don’t exist. There’s nothing I can do but draw water for myself and wash in silence. In the hallway, a door opens and closes again.

“I hope you left some of him for the rest of us.” Garren, sounding pleased.

“Do be kind to him. He’s been working hard. I’ll send my man up tomorrow, I hope you don’t mind.”

“I would never do anything so vulgar as ask you for money up front, Naga.”

“But I _would_ like to talk business, dear, if you’ll tolerate my presence for just a moment longer.”

Garren’s tone dips a little. “I’m sorry, Naga, Nahne still isn’t for sale.”

“One day, I’m going to find a price that suits you, no matter how exorbitant it is.” Naga chuckles. “No, I want to ask about your new boy. He said his name was--?”

“Darkling.”

“Lovely features, hasn’t he? I’ve known women who would cheerfully murder for eyelashes as long as his. And a mouth that begs for attention.”

Cheeky glances at me. I keep my eyes down, scrubbing between my toes.

"Untrained--"

"I don't care."

"--And it's too early to tell what his temperament is like, not until he comes out of bed. Any boy is obedient as long as he's chained down."

"Garren, you've always kept me reliably entertained. I’ve no doubt Darkling will be as delightful as anything that’s come out of this house.”

Garren sighs, then tries to regain some ground against Naga’s cheerful, insistent onslaught. “At least let me finish his training first.”

“You know I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“And of course you’re welcome any time, but I couldn’t in good conscience sell you something that would be bound to disappoint you. But as long as he’s here, you may come to make use of him any time you like. Just-- send a message an hour or so ahead, I beg you.”

“I suppose I can accept that. Just as long as you don’t throw him to someone else under my nose. I shall be very cross.”

“I hope you know I’m not a stupid man. Now if you don’t mind, my boys have to eat and I have a task ahead of me shaking whatever bits of Nahne you’ve left over out of the sheets so he can wash and go to bed.”

“I’ll be in touch, dear. Don’t worry, I can see myself out.”

I pour a bucket of warm water over my head, using my fingers to comb my hair out of my eyes. Cheeky stomps out of the bathroom as soon as the stairwell door has closed behind Naga; I take a minute to towel myself off and pad out to the kitchen.

Wil is at the stove tonight, stirring something in a pot. He smiles at me as I come in. 

"Nothing fancy tonight, I'm afraid," he says as I sit down at the table. "I can't cook like Nahne. He's been, uh, otherwise occupied."

I shift in my chair, trying to hide a grin. "I know. Garren went to go try to get him out of bed."

"That'll be a few minutes, then." He dumps a ladle of his concoction into a bowl and sets it in front of me. "Rules stop meaning anything when Naga's in the house." 

I pick up my spoon. Dinner doesn't look like much, but I'm not about to refuse it. Not every night can end with clover wine and flaky pasties dripping juices and gravy. Wil comes to sit across from me, setting a basket of bread between us. I murmur my thanks. He breaks off a chunk of bread and offers it to me, and when I reach for it his fingers brush mine, just for a moment. His eyes meet mine, a dog sizing up a bone left unattended on a butcher's counter.

"I'm not about to bend you over the table," Wil says softly. His mouth curves toward a smile. "Is that what you've been thinking about?"

I swallow. "Garren would hear."

"I told you," he says, "rules don't mean anything tonight." 

I'm rescued by a step at the door. I turn to see Nahne float in, sleepy-eyed, his hair raked carelessly back and tangling over his shoulders in a mass. I stare. Across the table, Wil snorts, then begins laughing. 

As Nahne comes close and leans down to kiss my cheek, I realize he has several new livid marks on his throat, mottled red and only just starting to darken. I reach up to touch one and he leans against my hand, smiling. I can't help but love the curve of that mouth, lips swollen from another man's attentions. I curl my hand around the back of his neck and draw him to me for a kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cats and ratting dogs run free on the docks in Portton, and each sailing vessel has at least one or the other. The animals are revered and respected not only for protecting cargo from rats, but also stemming the spread of disease.

He heaves a contented sigh at the window and I open my eyes.

Sunlight is already creeping in over the windowsill, but my aching body complains that it's still too early. I yawn and stretch my legs, toes pointing, and roll my shoulders as best I can. Nahne stays at the window, looking down at the street while the baker's wife shouts about her morning rolls and how lovely they are.

I wait for him, already anticipating the press of his lips to mine.

It had been brief, last night in the kitchen. I'd pulled him to me and nearly into my lap, wanting him, wanting him to know that I wanted him. I'd imagined him sucking Naga's cock, imagined that I could still taste it in Nahne's mouth. I'd put my hand on his hip, feeling the soft dip between thigh and abdomen and preparing to follow it down when Wil had pulled us apart.

"Don't be reckless," he'd hissed, and seated Nahne across the table from me where I couldn't get to him: a man putting a toy out of a child's reach.

There was no one to stop us now, nothing between us but an aching gap of creaking floor boards. My heart beats faster when I hear him step away from the window. He makes a pleased, thoughtful noise as he looks down at me, as if he'd been presented with a delicious meal and his only dilemma was where to begin.

Softly, I say, "Kiss me."

He does: just beneath my jaw, opening his mouth against my skin. Another kiss follows, and another, following the line of my throat so that when he does finally return to kiss my lips I'm trembling for it. He cups my face in both hands, holding me still while he explores my mouth with his tongue, and then he's climbing into bed with me and straddling my waist.

I know he can feel my cock hardening just as I can feel the rolling tension of his thighs as he grinds against me, slow and rhythmic. He takes a breath, holds it as we move together, then lets it out in a needy sigh. I ask him to kiss me again and he takes my bottom lip between his teeth, sucking hard, his fingers moving down my body and teasing his thumb against a nipple. 

Oh, I want this. I want him. I lift my hips off the bed to meet his next thrust and feel the first rush of pleasure jump through me, stealing the breath from my lungs. He laughs against my mouth.

And then he's sitting up, sliding down off the bed and straightening out his clothes. He kisses my flushed cheek and turns to go. 

"--Wait--"

A glance over the shoulder.

"I thought you-- I thought we--" But without his warmth enveloping me, I'm slowly coming back to reality. Still, my entire body reaches out to him. "Come back?"

Nahne shakes his head, gestures toward the kitchen. Someone has to light the stove. Someone has to fix breakfast for all of us. And Garren will be awake soon, too soon for me to get what I want from him, for either of us to find any kind of satisfaction.

I slump back against the bed; Nahne vanishes out the door. My body cools quickly in the breeze from the window, but it takes longer than that for me to stop feeling his fingers playing across my skin, his tongue slipping past my lips. I draw my knees up and my legs together, seeking for some kind of friction.

"I thought Nahne was taking a bit too long to wake you."

It's Wil, watching me from the door, hair sleep-tousled. "You look like you've been having a good morning," he grins. "Or probably it _was_ good, until Nahne wandered off."

"Neither of us want to be caught by Garren," I say, stretching my legs out again. "He's being safe."

"If he were worried about being caught, he wouldn't have started with you this early in the morning." Wil’s gaze travels down my body, then back up. “Let’s hope Master doesn’t see you.”

He walks off, yawning and rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. The jolt of anxiety over thinking of what Garren will do to me if he finds me like this does a lot toward undoing Nahne's work. All I could think of in the moment was wanting him, but now I realize Nahne doesn't have much fear of his Master. Or of anyone. 

He's untouchable because he's beautiful. _No man can look at Nahne and not imagine what that pretty mouth would feel like wrapped around his cock._ His lips hold kisses, not complaints, and he goes gladly into the arms of whomever Garren points him to.

And into mine. 

Breakfast is cooking. The smell of eggs frying wafts down the hall, along with the morning sounds made by people eating and preparing for the day. Over it all, Nahne is humming happily to himself, stopping only when Garren snaps at him to stop daydreaming and come to the table. 

"Save that last bit of marmalade for the boy," Wil says. "He's wild for it."

"You shouldn't be indulging his sweet tooth. You'll spoil him."

"He's so well behaved, Master. I thought he deserved a treat."

"Anybody's well behaved when they can't move," Cheeky grumbles. "I like marmalade, too."

"There's honey left in the pantry," Wil offers. "You take that, and I'll give the marmalade to Darkling. Maybe some sugar will sweeten up your tart mouth."

"My mouth isn't _tart._ I just don't think he should get special treatment if he isn't special."

"You're right, Cheeky." There's a weary amusement in Garren's voice. "He isn't special, and nor are you, though Wil treats the three of you like his pets. Think of how fortunate you are, to have him looking after you and making sure you have something to be grateful for."

It's a clear warning. Cheeky murmurs his 'yes sir' and soon the only sounds from the kitchen are the clink and scrape of utensils on plates. After a few minutes Wil and Garren turn to talking about the inventory in the shop, and Nahne starts up humming again. 

"Sounds like we've got our work cut out for us," Wil says, long after I'd stopped understanding their talk about cassia and bergamot and chai spices. "Shall I come down and help you in the shop today?"

"After you've seen everyone fed and bathed and at their chores. Saints, the Destin girls are coming again today. It'll be half the morning gone by the time they're done, but I don't want them up here alone with the boys. You'll have to keep an eye on them."

"That leaves plenty of time, Master, if we close the shop early and I work through dinner."

"Lovely young man that you are, Wil, if you were only a bit smaller I could sell you for a fortune." A chair scrapes across the kitchen tile as someone stands up. 

"I hadn't meant to get this big. But I enjoy being able to look you in the eye." There's real affection in Wil's voice, and an extended pause where neither of them speak at all.

"Finish your breakfast," Garren rumbles fondly, "before I put this inventory off for another day."

"Master--"

"When this is done and swept from my mind. You can wait that long, can't you?"

"I suppose we have to." Then, "I can serve you lunch in the shop, like in the old days."

"I think you're a little big to fit underneath the shop counter, Wil."

"We'll see."

I lay back and close my eyes as Garren walks past my door on his way down to the shop. Nearly as soon as the stairwell door closes, Wil is in my room, bearing a tray of food and a kiss that speaks of his own hunger. I turn my head away, but Wil seizes me by the chin and kisses me again, his fingers digging into my jaw. 

I squirm, wanting to tell him that he's going to spill my breakfast all over me. When he finally pulls away, he rakes me with another hungry, wanting look, kindling a hot feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Let me up," I tell him. "Let me up and you can kiss me again."

As soon as my wrists are freed I pull him to me, surprising him. The tray pushes into my stomach as I lift myself into an awkward sitting position. I can taste salt and grease in Wil's mouth. I imagine I can taste Garren's kisses there too. Powerful. Poisonous. An odd little shiver goes through me.

Wil's forgotten about feeding me. He's leaning across me, one knee between my legs, his kisses following the same path down my throat that Nahne's had earlier. Lower, my nipple between his teeth, his mouth on my hip. Then he shifts to take my cock into his mouth and the breakfast tray crashes onto the floor, scattering toast and sausage links.

"Oh shit-- shit." Wil all but jumps off of me. "I'm sorry, I-- fuck, okay, let's get this picked up."

That single, fleeting moment of power, fluttering like a moth between my cupped hands. I feel it fading as the gap between us grows. I've been held captive and helpless here for days-- more than a week. I can't begin to piece the memories of mornings and meals and evenings and men together. But I do know this: for a few breaths, I had something Wil wanted. Something he would do anything to get.

I leap after it.

"Don't go," I gasp. "Don't go. Leave it, I don't care about-- I just want you."

He turns back to me. I force myself to look into his eyes, staring into them like I can see the empty space behind them that he's going to use me to fill. _Want me._ The thought of him coming inside of me, shaking and gripping the sheets to keep from falling apart, hardens my cock faster than any of his insistent touches. _Want me, want me._

I lean back on the heels of my hands, one leg stretched out, the other crooked inward like a beckoning finger. He leans closer much more slowly than before. My breath goes shallow as his eyes drop to my mouth, and when he kisses me again I take his hand and wrap it around my cock.

“This what you’ve been waiting for?” He murmurs in my ear.

Bucking up into his grip feels good, better when his hand tightens around me. Desire flutters low in my belly and I lay back to look at him, inviting him to look at me, to touch me. Two oil-slicked fingers slip inside of me and I tense around them. I can feel the hardness of Wil’s muscles under my hands, tight with anticipation.

I want this. I want more of this, being something he’s aching for. His eyes are on me, and he can think only of what he wants to do to me. His cock brushes against my thigh and a spark jumps through me. Fear. Wanting. He pushes into me and I let my fingernails dig into his shoulders, drawing a deep breath and letting it out in a trembling sigh.

The bed makes a long complaining creak underneath us, then another as Wil braces his hand against the mattress beside my head. I wrap my leg around his waist and feel him come into me from a different angle, pleasure arcing through me and crackling up my throat as a sharp cry.

Wil covers my mouth with his own, his tongue slicking against mine. Then his thrusts are coming quicker, harder, and I'm moaning into his mouth. My grasping hands leave long welts in his back and he seizes my wrists in his hands, pinning them above my head. I can feel him shuddering at the end of each thrust, his breath coming heavy and hot on my skin. His mouth burns against my shoulder and I realize he's bitten me there, then again at the base of my neck. It hurts. I want him to do it again.

_"Fuck."_ He hangs his head, sweat dripping from his chin, grunting with every thrust. His movements are more ragged, slipping out of his control. "Darkling--"

"Finish inside of me," I beg. "I want it. Come inside of me."

Wil's response is another strained groan, the tendons on his neck standing out for a moment. I feel him twitch inside of me as he buries himself deep, but then he's pulling out, his come spilling hot across my thighs. It's enough to slick over my cock as he strokes it, short, jerky movements until I arch into his hand, gasping, my own come dotting his chest with white.

"Mmf." Wil lets his shoulders sag for a moment, breathing deeply, then flashes me a grin. "Whatever Master paid for you, it wasn't enough."

I close my eyes, relaxing into the bed and relishing the feeling of being able to lay down without my hands bound above my head. Wil tickles his fingers under my chin with a chuckle and then I hear the rustle of his clothing as he hikes his pants back up. "You're a mess," he says, pushing my knee to one side. "Think you can stand?"

"Maybe," I mumble. I keep my eyes closed, thinking only of what Wil had felt like inside of me, what it had been like to have his hands on me, his teeth on my skin. I'm dizzy with it: I don't want to let it go. 

Wil tickles me again, tugging on my big toe until I pull my foot away from him, grimacing. "Come on now," he coaxes, trailing his fingers up my chest. "Wash up and I'll get you some breakfast."

"Marmalade?"

"That was the last of it on your tray, sorry. But there's honey, if Cheeky wants to share.” He takes my hand and pulls me up and forward into his arms. "Come on, little slut.I’ve got to clean up the mess I made before the Destin girls come and see you like this.” He kisses my ear, then murmurs, “I don’t want Master hearing that I’ve been having a little taste of his wares. Sweet as they are.”

He leads me, wobbly-legged, down the hallway. I catch a glimpse of Cheeky as he ducks into the kitchen: his dark eyes are full of a smoldering anger, ready to leap up into violence.

 

Clean and stuffed full of cold sausages and honey on toast, there's little I can do for the rest of the day but lay in bed, drifting in and out of a heavy, sated sleep and listening to Wil and the others at their chores and the murmur of customers downstairs. 

Garren comes up for lunch, but only looks in on me briefly before taking his meal back down with him to the shop. In the afternoon, I listen to Nahne singing and watch him moving back and forth in the hallway, carrying basins full of water to each room. I let myself stare at him when he comes in to refill the oil in the lamp-- the slender lines of his body, his hair falling down past his shoulders nearly to the middle of his back. The curve of his thighs through his clothing is soft, inviting, and I imagine a man letting his hand follow it between his legs, fingers tracing the outline of his cock.

Nahne smiles at me as if he can hear my illicit thoughts and comes to give me a peck on the cheek, chaste as a nun as if he hadn't been grinding his hips into mine this morning. I feel the tickle of his lips against my skin long after he's left.

Neither Shan nor Aure Naga come back when the evening comes, but there are plenty of others to take their place. In between customers, I strain my ears to hear Nahne’s moans and daydream about pulling him into my arms, running my fingers through that long hair. The last man is pleasantly surprised to find me hard and works my cock into a weak, disinterested orgasm with his calloused hands as he fucks me. Despite my lackluster performance, the man leaves singing my praises to Garren as if I'd jerked and bucked like a fish out of water, screaming his name. It earns me a serving of sticky fruit tart at dinner and a pat on the head for a job well done.

In the morning, Nahne stretches out beside me in bed and makes love to my mouth and throat until I'm shaking, every breath coming ragged with need. I beg him to stay and he pays me no mind, leaving me whimpering helplessly until Wil comes to see what's wrong with me. It's him that glances over his shoulder, listening for Garren, before taking my cock in his hand and working me in long, tight strokes until I come against his palm, muffling my cry of pleasure against my shoulder. He comes to fuck me himself later in the morning, on my hands and knees gripping my pillow while his hands grip my waist. He comes down the backs of my thighs, holds me against him and kisses my shoulder when I come into his hand again.

 

And in the evening, work. I've grown so used to it by now that it seems normal. 

Wil fucks me every day that week, and most of the days of the next. On the mornings that he doesn't, I listen to him with Cheeky in the other bedroom, encounters that usually start roughly but end with Cheeky sighing his pleasure and Wil's name as he comes. Nahne will sometimes come into my room then to sit on my bed and stroke his fingers across my skin, watching goosebumps form in the wake of his touch. He knows, by now, where and how I like to be touched; I know that he likes to touch me and leave me wanting. I like to think that he carries the memory of my skin against his hands as he goes about his daily chores. 

Garren comes upstairs for lunch each day, stopping to inspect me before he returns to his work. His hands roam my body with no regard for my privacy or dignity, but I haven't been used by him in more than ten days. Whether he's lost interest in me or he finds his releases elsewhere, I'm not sure, but I'm grateful. Apart from Cheeky's frequent, ice-cold stares and the men who come nightly to my bed, my days become somewhat peaceful.

A morning comes when the sun doesn't show its face. Wind rattles against the window latch as if trying to get in and raindrops patter against the glass in arrhythmic waves. When Nahne comes to draw the curtains back, he lets in a weak, milky gray light and a chilly draft worming through poorly sealed cracks. He opens the window only long enough to fasten the shutters, shutting out both storm and light and leaving my room in near darkness.

His face is thrown into shadow as he leans over to kiss me. He cups my face in his hands when he climbs atop me and stretches out across me, chest to chest. His warmth pressed against me is heavenly, even though I know what kind of state he'll leave me in.

He sits up, straddling my waist again. The rocking of his hips on mine is nearly unbearable, worse when he sucks my nipple into his mouth, tongue teasing until I'm arching into him, desperate to come before he leaves me. Bracing my feet against the bed, I thrust upwards and against him, pulling a startled gasp from him. 

He puts his hands on my shoulders, moving faster, pretty mouth opening for a moan. My shoulders burn as I lift my hips off the mattress, teeth gritted, chasing the pleasure hovering just out of my reach. Nahne hunches forward, biting his lip, and I watch his orgasm move through him, his thighs tensing and quivering, eyelashes fluttering.

It takes him a few moments to move off of me. He looks down at the crotch of his pants with a little half-smile, and I'm just beginning to wonder whether Wil will come and help me again this morning when Nahne wraps his hand around my cock and leans over to take it into his mouth.

My body goes rigid. Nahne strokes the base of my cock while sucking hard at the head, tongue pressing against the underside. I can't last long-- watching his mouth work over me, long hair falling over one shoulder, taking me deep into his throat and then pulling back to moisten his lips with his tongue before beginning again. He's leaning against my hips, pinning them to the mattress, and then I'm coming, crying out hoarsely, fingers curled into fists with my fingernails biting into my palms.

Before my cock has stopped twitching, he kisses me and I can taste myself on his lips. His tongue is just as slick and strong against mine as it was when he had me in his mouth and I want more, no matter how exhausted my body is. I know now why Garren forbids his boys from fucking each other: I feel I'll never be able to stop wanting what I've just had with him.

He pulls away from me, looking down at me with eyes heavy-lidded with satisfaction. I open my mouth to tell him that he has to stay with me, that I need more, but he shushes me and in another moment he's gone. 

I let out a breath, laying back against my pillow. Oh, Nahne. I don't know how I'll be able to eat dinner across from him without leaping on top of him. I don't know how anyone does.

A fresh gust of wind clatters the shutters together. I smell the wood burning in the stove as Nahne lights it. The house wakes more slowly than usual, made sluggish by the damp and chill. Wil yawns as he shuffles down the hall toward the kitchen. "Gonna be a nasty one today," he says. "Put on water for tea, if I'm lucky I'll get some down Master to warm him up." A pause, then, _"You're_ in a good mood."

"The latch on the shutter's broken, Wil." Cheeky, his voice spindling into a whine. "I pulled the curtains shut but it won't keep the cold out."

"Well, now's not the time to fix it. Come on and sit down." Wil chuckles. "Look at your hair this morning."

"Get off. I'm tired."

"You'll feel better when you've eaten. Don't try pulling that face when Master wakes up, if he's as cranky as you he'll be glad to cane you before he's even had a shave."

Cheeky mutters something that I don't catch. 

"Your attitude stops being cute after a while," Wil says lowly. "Shape up, or you won't like what happens when you don't have me looking after you."

There's a stiff, angry silence. Finally Cheeky mumbles "yes sir" and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The peace is short-lived; Garren's door opens and there's a sudden flurry of activity in the kitchen, the clang of the kettle on the stove, a teacup ringing loudly against its saucer. 

As Wil hisses to Nahne to get some bread toasted and orders Cheeky to go downstairs to pick up the milk off the stoop, I turn on my side, leaning my head against my arm to try to get a few more minutes' sleep.

The morning routine has become predictable, even soothing: Garren will eat, come in to be sure I haven't died in the night, and then go downstairs to open the shop. The boys linger at their meals a little longer and if the Destin girls aren't due, Wil will come in to bring me breakfast and kiss me.

But the storm hammering on the windows has upset everyone's expectations for the day and I can feel everything slowly going off-kilter. Wil begs Garren to eat something substantial but the man takes only tea and a half piece of toast with him downstairs-- the arrival of a storm like this is the summer's death throes, heralding fall and chest colds which are an apothecary's lifeblood. He wants to begin selling prophylactic herbal teas to dockworkers and sailors, tonics promised to resist the spray and damp and keep them healthy through the winter.

Nahne sighs deeply, a breath that ends in a thoughtful "hmph" while he puts the kitchen to rights. Wil is instructing Cheeky what to put on my breakfast tray. I have to assume he's following directions, but his only response is a deadly silence. "I'm gonna wrap this up and bring it down to Master," Wil says. "You bring this tray in to Darkling. Let him up so he can eat. Got it?"

Nothing.

"Cheeky."

"I got it," Cheeky says sullenly.

"Then get to it." Usually so easygoing, Wil's voice is dark with anger. He stalks down the hall and past my bedroom and his expression makes me curl into myself, uneasy. 

I almost expect Cheeky to come and dump my breakfast on top of me, but he carefully sets the tray on my nightstand so he can undo my cuffs. Once I'm up, he simply turns and walks away. The tension in the house is ratcheting up again. I decide to get as much food down as I can before something explodes. The storm is banging insistently on the shutters; it won't be long now.

I see Nahne through the doorway, looking down the hallway and twisting the hem of his shirt between his hands. "Nahne," I whisper, and he turns to look at me, mouth on a worried slant. "You're beautiful," I tell him, and his lips curl up a little.

He returns to the kitchen. A particularly strong gust of wind makes the shutters sound as if someone is pounding on them from the outside trying to get in. Thunder growls. 

In only a few minutes, Wil comes up the stairs, sighing and shaking his head. Nahne makes a startled sound down the hallway and just afterward I hear a steady _dlink dlink dlink_ like someone tapping one finger against a drum. 

"What is it? Oh, hells, the roof is leaking again. No, don't panic, just tell me if water starts coming down anywhere else. Keep an eye on that pan so it doesn't overflow. I'll tell Master when he comes up for lunch." A pause. "You can scrub around it. You know a storm like this won't last longer than an hour, and tomorrow I'll go up on the roof and see what I can do about that leak."

"Excuse me." I can imagine the set of Cheeky's shoulders, his jaw tight, eyes on the floor. "I need to get in there."

"Watch the pan." Then, "I can see you're going to be willful all day."

"I'm not--" Cheeky stops himself. "I've got to scrub these out."

"Look at me. Look up at me. What's the matter with you, hm? You can't walk around frowning like that all the time like someone's stepped in your fruit pie. --No, come back here. Tell me what's the matter."

"Nothing's the matter," Cheeky mumbles.

"Is it the rain that's made you moody? I can give you something to smile about."

"Don't."

"Those can wait." A chuckle. "With all the racket the storm is making, you can be as loud as you want."

"Get _off--"_

"Oh, I see. You want to _play._ How do you want it? Against the wall again? In the kitchen? Facedown on the bed, like I did before? You squealed and moaned like a virgin on his first fuck."

_”Get off,_ I don't want you touching me when you're always getting them filthy putting them all over _him._ If you touch me again I'll--"

"You'll what? I know you like a fight, come on--"

The slap sounds weak, probably only glancing off Wil's cheek. But the next strike is much louder, and I hear Cheeky hit the wall and then lose his balance, turning to crawl away until I can see him through the doorway. He brings up a hand to wipe his mouth and it comes away wet with blood, smearing on his chin.

Wil comes storming down the hallway after him, hauling Cheeky up by his shirtfront and shaking him. "Hit me again," he snarls, thumping Cheeky's back to the wall. "Go on, hit me again, let's have a _real_ fight like you want!"

"I'm sorry--"

_"Now_ you're sorry, _now_ you're complacent as a cow, aren't you? Let's have a few more tears, so Master knows how sorry you really are!" 

Wil draws back his fist; Cheeky cries out and tries to shield himself from the blow with shaking hands. After a moment Will releases him and Cheeky slumps to the ground, crying in gasping sobs. "Get up," Wil snaps. "I think Master's going to agree you're better suited to day work until you can get this mood of yours wrung out of you. Get _up,_ or I'll drag you."

Cheeky picks himself up, wiping his chin again and then his cheek, shoulders still curled inward. Wil takes him by the arm and pulls him out the stairwell door, slamming it behind him. I can hear him calling for Garren on the way down, and Cheeky's renewed sobs as he's dragged down to the shop.

A terrible silence follows. I set my empty tray back on the nightstand and slip out of bed, padding to the door and looking out. Nahne is standing there, arms wrapped around himself, lip trembling. I put my hand on his elbow and he startles, relaxing only fractionally when he recognizes me. 

"Do you think Cheeky'll be okay?" I ask him. 

He shakes his head fractionally, his long hair falling into his face. I reach out to tuck the loose strands back behind his ear. "...What's 'day work'?"

Nahne leans into my touch, eyes closing. I step closer, putting an arm around his waist and feel him relax against me. Right now I want nothing more than to lay in bed with him curled in my arms, sleeping away the storm. But before I can pull him with me back into the bedroom, Wil comes stomping up the stairs again and Nahne springs away from me just as the door swings open.

Wil's always been good to me, but I can feel the anger rolling off of him now and I don't want to be the next target of his temper. I take an uncertain step back toward the bedroom, flinching when his gaze falls on me. "Get back where you belong," he growls, taking my shoulder and shoving me through the doorway. I scramble for my bed, not realizing he's behind me until he seizes me by the back of the neck, bending me across the mattress with one arm wrenched behind my back.

I dare not cry out while he fucks me, no matter how rough, how painful each thrust of Wil's cock is. He keeps me pinned to the bed, leaning his weight across me until I can hardly breathe. I lay with my face pressed into the sheets, breathing in ragged gasps to the time of his thrusts. Eyes shut tight, I can only wait for it to be over.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second most expensive import to Portton is slave labor. The first? Citrus fruit.

I've been laying in bed listening to the rain on the shutters long enough to hear it begin to taper off as the morning does. Wil had given me a rough scrub-down when he was finished with me and my skin still feels raw against the sheets, my hips aching.

Wil's been quiet since this morning, moving about the house doing Cheeky's usual chores. Nahne, usually full of cheerfulness and song, is silent as he sweeps and polishes the floor in the hallway. It's quiet enough that the light, hesitant steps on the stairs seem too loud, and the heavier footfalls behind them are like the beating of a huge drum. I almost expect the floor to shake and the windows to rattle with every step. 

The door opens and I catch only a fleeting glimpse of Cheeky as he passes in the hallway, head down. Nahne makes a sound, a little huff of breath as Garren comes to the top of the stairway. "Into the kitchen," he orders. "Wil, get Darkling and bring him here."

I'm unbound and ushered into the kitchen. Nahne is already sitting at the table, fiddling anxiously with the hem of his shirt. Across from him, so still and quiet that he seems like a stranger, is Cheeky. 

Wil had only hit him once, butheeky sports several bruises across his cheek and in one eye which is berry-red and nearly swollen shut. His lip has split, a fresh scab wreathed by another angry bruise. Someone's made an effort to clean him up, but dried blood still clings in dark specks on his chin. 

And resting at the base of his throat, a leather collar with an old brass ring fitted into it. Cheeky's skin already looks chafed and red and I don't have to wonder who's been pulling him around by his neck. 

He's been sitting with his hands in his lap, eyes down. As I'm staring at him he raises his gaze to mine, striking me with a look of hatred so pure that I can nearly feel the flames of it licking at my face. _Your fault._ I look away, cowed.

"Cheeky's pattern of unruliness and disobedience came to a head this morning," Garren says. "And as you can see he's going to be spending the next several days reaping the rewards of his efforts. In the store room," he goes on, turning his attention to Cheeky, who wilts under his attention. "Servicing men for two wen a time during the day. He'll be continuing with his usual work at night at the regular price."

Cheeky remains silent, eyes on his lap again. Garren reaches out to slip a finger into his collar, pulling him forward a little. "Do you know why that is?"

"I..." Cheeky begins, then falters, his shoulders shaking.

"Your working price will not change," Garren says softly, "because you are worth _nothing_ to me if you aren't bringing in money. I've been too kind to you, allowed Wil to be too soft with you, and you've forgotten what you are-- a whore, and nothing more. Nor will you ever be." Another tug, harder. "Repeat it to me."

The collar bobs as Cheeky swallows. "I'll never be anything more than a whore," he whispers.

Garren lets him go. "And you will think of that while you work today," he says. "Quietly and without complaint. The others are going to eat their meal at the table and you are going to watch them and consider what you can do to earn a plate at dinner." He nods at Wil. "I'll stay down at the counter. Bring Cheeky down when you're finished."

Wil sets a plate in front of me. I keep my eyes fixed on it instead of Cheeky. I don't know which would be worse: looking up to find him glaring at me again, or seeing him defeated and hollow, shoulders slumped. 

For lunch, there are sandwiches made of slices of cold beef from last night's dinner. I've never been served lunch, let alone allowed to eat it at the table in the kitchen. I usually doze through the afternoon, waking when the others start to prepare the house for the night's business. Dinner is always a bit more relaxed; the three of us exhausted from our work, warm and clean from bathing. It's easy to earn an affectionate pat on the head from Garren, a secret peck on the cheek from Nahne.

Here in the kitchen, lit by what few rays of sunlight have managed to struggle from between the clouds and through the window, tension radiates from each of us. Wil takes his meal standing by the stove; Nahne is picking morosely at his sandwich. I peel back the bread on mine, but the smell of the cooked beef makes my stomach turn. 

Nahne pours me a cup of water instead, and we drink together. Wil, shaking his head in disgust, takes both of our plates from us and dumps our meals into the trash, then seizes Cheeky by his collar and drags him out into the hallway.

-

The rain returns in the evening, arriving at the same time as the first of our customers. The men, for once, are a welcome distraction from the buzzing energy in the house, and a pocket full of coins always lifts Garren's mood from whatever depths its plunged to. I see three men; Nahne sees four. A bespectacled man, meek as a mouse, comes to shyly ask for Wil's company. Two men who had come for Nahne while he was occupied are sent to see Cheeky instead. I hear one of them chuckle and say, "Got into a bit of trouble, did you? Naughty thing."

Wil is still ensconced with his customer even when the other men have gone, so it's Garren who comes to unbind me. I flinch when he runs his fingers through my hair, then down over my shoulders. "Sweet little thing," he says. "Already earning more than his keep."

He releases me so I can go and wash, taking extra care scrubbing between my fingers and toes, too aware of the lingering feeling of his hands on my skin. Nahne meets me in the doorway just as I'm leaving, and we share a kiss in the doorway while Garren is busy in the kitchen. I taste salt on his lips and I let my tongue follow the trail of it to the corner of his mouth. Down the hall, I hear the long, satisfied sigh of Wil's mousy customer.

The buzz of danger begins to come back when I find Cheeky sitting at the kitchen table. Much of the swelling has gone down, but his face is still mottled red and purple, a dark, fresh scab on his lower lip. Whatever energy he had to hate me at lunchtime is long since spent. He sits with his head bowed, and it looks to be more from exhaustion than submission. 

I sit diagonally across from him, next to the wall. There's another green glass bottle on the table, with the same jumping rabbit logo that I recognize from the clover wine whose taste I suddenly crave. Wine and-- I inhale deeply, eyes closing-- chicken, with the smell of a spice that prickles memories to life: sitting in the back of a wagon that had been full when we'd come to market, eating out of a shallow wooden bowl and watching a woman sweating as she stirs soup in a huge kettle, bellowing out her wares as her skinny daughters hand out bowls to customers. 

Garren calls to Nahne to hurry up, startling me back into the kitchen. Nahne's singsong answer comes echoing back and Garren shakes his head, reaching forward to twist a corkscrew into the top of the wine bottle. He pours a cup for himself and sets the bottle down on the counter, rolling his shoulders. I fold my hands in my lap and look down at them instead of demanding why he's acting so tired when he isn't the one on his back with his knees spread all night.

Nahne comes in a few minutes later, hair damp and tied into a knot on top of his head. Garren turns away from us to tend to the pot on the stove and Nahne leans over to kiss me on the cheek. I hurriedly put space between us, and as I do, I see Cheeky watching us with dark eyes.

"We'll start without Wil," Garren says, filling two bowls for Nahne and I and setting them on the table. He brings the wine back too, to my relief. "His man Jens comes so seldom that it almost counts as a holiday when he shows up at my door. Anyone who pays extra for a rascal like Wil is welcome to stay as long as he likes."

"They sounded like they were almost done," I offer, picking up a spoon.

"Eavesdropping again?"

I duck my head. "No sir. But I heard it."

"Jens will go home when Wil decides he can." Garren's smirk is fond. "Don't worry about how long they're going to take."

I wait for Nahne to finish his prayer before I start on my meal, delighted at how the chicken falls apart at the touch of my spoon. Nahne puts a bite into his mouth, pauses, then wrinkles his nose delicately before swallowing. I nearly laugh at him before I remember where I am, and who's sitting across from me.

"How many men did you service downstairs, Cheeky?" Garren asks.

Cheeky clears his throat. "Seven," he says. "Sir."

"And upstairs only two. That's nearly thirty wen for the day. The spices in that pot cost more." Garren turns to look at me; I stare at my bowl. "Darkling, what do you think? You may have a second bowl, or you may give it to Cheeky, if you feel he's earned it."

There's no question of what I _want_ to do. But the simplest of questions from Garren always come singing with the tension of a spring trap, waiting for me to take the wrong path. I look up at him. "I think Cheeky's done all right," I say quietly. "I'll give him my bowl."

Garren's eyes narrow thoughtfully. Then he shrugs, taking another bowl down from the cupboard. "Your brother has decided to show you mercy," he says as he fills it. "I expect you'll be grateful to him."

The look I get from Cheeky while Garren's back is turned is no less venomous than the last one I'd endured from him. 

"I had better start setting the rooms to rights," Garren says after he sets Cheeky's meal down. "Darkling, you're to come to my room when you've finished. Cheeky, you'll help Nahne and Wil clear up here. I want to hear nothing but silence and busy hands, understood?"

I nod; Cheeky mumbles his assent. Nahne is still intent on his meal and Garren doesn't bother disturbing him. Of all of us, Nahne's the only one who can be trusted to get to his chores without being told. As soon as we're alone in the kitchen, I pour myself a brimming cup of wine and sip from it. It mingles badly with the spices in the chicken, but I enjoy it anyway, the warm feeling of it down my throat.

I probably drink more than I should, because Garren's comment of 'busy hands' suddenly takes on a very different meaning. I put my hand on Nahne's thigh and he leans into me, laying his head on my shoulder.

When Wil finally comes to dinner, Nahne's face is flushed pink and my hand is still down the front of his pants. Wil goes to the stove first to serve himself, then says, "You two had better have stopped by the time I turn around."

I kiss Nahne before separating from him, giddy from being so close to him. I feel soft; happy. Cheeky had only had one cup of wine, and Nahne had refused any, but half the liquid in the bottle has vanished somehow. I push my hair out of my face and lean my elbows on the table. 

"Master told me you're expected in his room after dinner," Wil reminds me. "I know you haven't forgotten. If you're finished with your bowl, leave it here for us to take care of and go see him." He reaches out and takes my empty bowl away from me. "I should have told him not to leave you in here with a defenseless bottle of wine, you drunkard."

"I haven't had that much."

"The first time Master found me drunk, he slapped me so hard I can still see stars ten years later," Wil laughs. "I hope he's more lenient with you. Go on. And try not to fall over on the way there."

I push out my chair, taking my time standing up. I still feel fuzzy and content, enough that the prospect of going to Garren's room doesn't frighten me. I know what he wants from me: what everyone else wants. And I've done that enough times now that it won't be hard to lay still so he can take what he wants before he lets me go to bed. 

I make my way down the hallway, one hand on the wall, and to the forbidding wooden door that I've never seen open. I try to imagine what will be behind it-- another dim, dingy room? A bed draped in red and gold like a royal throne? I knock before I can think about hesitating. "Ga-- er. Master, it's Darkling."

The door pushes open easily and I step inside, eyes down and following the mazy pattern of the plush rug that I find underneath my feet. It's thick enough to dig my toes into, like standing on the back of some exotic, hairy animal. The lamp on the wall is lit, but another, smaller one sits on a cluttered desktop, illuminating whatever work Garren's abandoned for the night: dark curls of bark half-crushed into powder in a mortar. There's a sprig of lavender there, too, fresh enough to have been cut today. My stumbling mind muses over the image of Garren walking out into a field of flowers, plucking the most beautiful, before I remember where I am and turn to look at the wide bed that dominates the opposite wall.

I've never seen Garren when he wasn't standing over me or looking in on me from the doorway. I've rarely had his hands on me when my own weren't bound. And I've never approached him willingly, not like this, taking a small step away from the door and towards the bed, and then another. 

He's still larger than life, even doing something so mundane as lounging in bed reading a book. I watch as he marks his place with a piece of ribbon, closes the book, and sits up to receive me. "Shut the door," he says, eyes on me, "and come here."

I swing the door closed and stand facing it for a moment, trying to get my mind to move in the way I'm used to. But drink and the steady warm light of the lamps and the familiarity of what Garren is going to do to me are lulling me and when I turn around I find myself going to the bed without hesitation. He extends a hand to help me climb onto the mattress, softer than anything I've ever known, and it dips beneath our combined weight so that suddenly I'm against his chest, breathing in herbs and smoke and musk and something happens to me, the same thing that happened when it was Wil who wanted me. 

I draw in a shaky breath.

I feel Garren's fingertips against my back, tracing the curve of my spine and raising goosebumps in their wake. His other hand cards through my hair and draws me closer against him. When he speaks, I can feel the rumble of his voice against my cheek. 

"Obedient," he breathes. "Eager. And beautiful, Darkling. You grow lovelier by the day."

I look up at him, at his mouth. He lets me kiss him only for a moment before he pushes me away, taking me by the shoulders and turning me to sit against him. I lean back, lifting my chin when he kisses my throat-- featherlight brushes of his lips against sensitive skin, maddeningly brief. 

I'm waiting for him to fuck me, _wanting_ him to fuck me, wanting him to break this aching, ringing tension. When he reaches between my thighs to stroke my cock I'm already hard, twitching in his grip with a bead of fluid glistening at the tip. He wants me to beg for it. I'm ready to beg for it, teetering on the edge of desperation. 

I don't hear the knock at the door, but I do hear Garren's invitation. I don't care who's coming to watch; I bite down on a moan.

"Come to the bed," Garren says. "Darkling's been very kind to you tonight. And he's taking in more than you are. The next meal he allows you to have will have come from his earnings."

Cheeky is standing at the foot of the bed. His face is a careful blank, but his eyes sparkle with fury. "Wil sent me here," he says.

"As I had asked him to." Garren crooks a finger. "Come here. Yes, on the bed."

I think Cheeky wants to frown, but the bruises around his mouth are still painful enough to keep it slack. He climbs onto the bed with us: I've never been so near to him, either, not so close that I can feel the heat from his skin, not close enough to kiss. His lips touch mine, lightly at first before he leans in, steadying himself with one hand cupped to my cheek.

"Cheeky's a very clever boy," Garren says in my ear. "He doesn't have to be told what to do. And he can be sweet, when he decides he wants to."

Cheeky kisses me again, tilting his head to better fit his mouth to mine. The coppery taste of blood rides on his tongue. Garren is idly teasing one of my nipples between finger and thumb as he watches us. I want to pull Cheeky's body closer to mine, but when I touch him he pulls away, eyes flat and unreadable. 

He puts more space between us, then rocks forward, stretching out on his stomach with my legs framing him on either side. I'd grown a little soft when Garren had stopped touching me but harden again when Cheeky takes my cock into his mouth, one hand coming up to stroke the shaft while the other eases my legs further apart. 

"See?" Garren says as Cheeky's head bobs between my thighs. "Sweet as you could want him. It just takes a little patience and discipline to get him there."

Cheeky pulls up on my cock, allowing me to see his eyelashes against his cheeks, the pucker of his mouth and the pink of his tongue before he goes back down again. I swallow, feeling my breath coming unevenly. I no more than look at Cheeky's dark head of hair before I want to touch it, and the thought's hardly gone through my mind before I'm feeling it between my grasping fingers, thick and coarse. Cheeky's head jerks back and I tighten my grip on his hair, forcing him back down.

Garren's lips brush my ear again. "Fuck it," he says. "Fuck his mouth."

Just the thought of it is almost enough to send me over the edge, and my hips twitch in reflex. I have to draw my knees up so I can brace my feet against the bed, and I enjoy the image of Cheeky caged between them with my cock in his mouth, bottom lip glistening with saliva. Keeping my fingers fisted in his hair, I pull out and then thrust back in, letting out a steadying breath. Cheeky's gaze flicks upwards: his expression is not charitable. My next thrust is harder.

Garren whispers his encouragement, fingers teasing down my chest and over my abdomen. I push myself into a rhythm, relishing the scrape of Cheeky's teeth against me and retaliating by thrusting in so far that I can feel his throat move as he fights not to gag. The sound his mouth makes as he sucks is delicious, and when Garren tells me to make Cheeky swallow my come I feel an electric jolt of pleasure move through me and I throw my head back, groaning as I empty myself into his mouth. 

My orgasm leaves me shuddering, laying half in Garren's lap, and my fingers slip from Cheeky's hair when he sits up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a line between his brows the only hint of a grimace. "We're done with you," Garren says. "Get out."

Dismissed, Cheeky slides off of the bed and goes to the door without a backwards glance. Before he's even gone, Garren's turned me onto my belly, dragging my hips up to put me on my knees and elbows.

Garren fucks me long past the point of exhaustion, wringing another trembling, whimpering orgasm from me before he lets me rest. I recall sweat still dripping off my chin when I lay my head on the pillow, the warmth and bulk of Garren's body against mine. He'll dismiss me too, in a moment, and I wonder if I'll be able to stagger down the hallway in this state. 

I wake to a sort of milky darkness. I turn over, sighing, pulling the blankets closer around me. The light from the fat, lopsided moon in the window is too bright and I contemplate getting up to shut the curtains. No. I'm too comfortable where I am. I close my eyes again.

"Up, now. Sit up."

Garren's arms are around me, lifting me out of bed. I hook a sleepy arm around his neck as he carries me down the hall, finally setting me on my feet in the doorway to my bedroom. He helps me shuffle into bed, binding my hands above my head again. I miss his warm blankets, the sinfully soft mattress, but there's a comfort in being in my own bed, as well. 

"Next time, you're crawling back to bed on your own." Affectionate. "You're far too big for this old man to be carrying you anywhere."

"Mm." I keep my eyes closed, feeling sleep pulling at me. "Okay."

He ruffles his hand through my hair. "Good night, Darkling."

-

Garren doesn't call me back to his bedroom for the next several days, but it doesn't keep me from replaying the encounter over and over in my mind. Cheeky between my legs, the ecstatic pleasure of release with his mouth still wrapped around me. Garren's rough claiming of me afterwards, praising me when I moaned for him, holding me tightly to him and stroking an orgasm out of my sensitive, overworked cock.

Each morning Nahne comes to visit me, though he doesn't always stay long. Each morning I'm let up to eat, and each morning as I finish my meal I watch Garren lead Cheeky past my doorway and down the stairs. Each night Cheeky returns with the shadows under his eyes darker than when he'd gone down. His face heals into a grotesque patchwork of yellows and greens with the red-black of his lip never quite managing to close. Maybe he'll have a scar, like Wil does. 

I don't object to Wil coming up to fuck me in the afternoons. He handles me roughly but he's found out what it takes to make me come, leaving me sated and sleepy as the sun begins to dip toward the horizon. If I'm lucky, he’ll have opened the window to let in fresh air and I can doze while listening to people go by in the street, talking to each other or themselves and living in a world outside of the house, outside of this little room, a place so foreign to me that I can hardly imagine it. 

This afternoon Wil's been too busy downstairs to come see me, but he's left the window opened for me anyway and I've been listening to the sound that horses' hooves make on the cobblestones in the street. There's a difference between the slow, steady steps of one of the big cart horses and the tangle of sounds that two horses in fancy harness make while pulling a coach. The second is unmistakable, especially when it's pulling up outside of the shop.

The coach door thumps open and closed, and I imagine someone wealthy and well turned out stepping delicately down into the street. A duke, maybe. A nobleman with a velvet coat, white lace spilling out from the cuffs like foam topping a wave. Gold rings on every finger and every toe, and hanging from each ear. I'd seen sailors with earrings before, tarnished hoops made of cheap gold meant as a charm to keep them healthy during long, grueling months at sea. Or because gold was pretty and sold easily.

_Like you._

I reel my mind away from that thought.

I hear Wil in the stairwell, laughing with someone. And another voice, one that I can't place. Nahne pads down the hall and stops to watch the door, eyebrows furrowed. He hears it too: the familiar cadence, different from how our customers or Garren's usually speak.

I begin to understand Wil's voice as he comes closer, climbing the stairs with the sound of someone else's boots coming up just behind him.

"--Course we're always delighted to have you, my Lord, I'm sure my Master would say the same if he weren't so busy with the shop. It's just that--"

"It's all right, I know all about Garren's little moods. I can handle a bit of a scowl from his direction, I assure you. I've seen him do much worse to some less fortunate than I."

"So have I," Wil mutters as he opens the door. 

Their voices suddenly come much more clearly, and I recognize the well-bred tones of someone I haven't seen in weeks: "Wouldn't this world be tedious if there weren't men like Garren in it, snarling like a workman's Cerberus at the doors to life's little pleasures?"

Nahne whips past my doorway in a blur, throwing himself into Aure Naga's arms. 

"Hello, love,” Naga says. “Ah, this gray makes you look so pallid, I've told Garren time and again not to dress you in anything that makes you look like the ghost of a scorned bride, but does he listen?" He chuckles. "I shall have it off you before the sight of it offends me any further."

Wil catches my eye with a meaningful look and reaches out to close my door, but Naga holds out a hand to stop him. "Ah, I'd forgotten. We aren't alone up here, are we?"

"It's only Darkling, he won't be any trouble," Wil says. 

"Yes. Darkling. We've met." Naga steps into my room, Nahne trailing behind. "And look, you've a bit of color to your cheeks now, don't you? But we've still got to do something about all this hair," he smiles, resting a hand on top of my head. A tingle moves down over my shoulders. "Do you remember me?"

"Your name is--" The shape of the sound is like taking a drink of sweet water on a hot day. "Aure."

"It's Lord Naga," Wil says from the doorway, voice full of warning.

"No, Wil, it's all right." Naga strokes his hand across my hair. "Few people manage to say my name as prettily as he does." He glances over his shoulder. "The key to his cuffs, if you would."

"I--" Wil clears his throat. "Yes, Lord." 

He comes forward to put the key into Naga's hands, with another look at me that begs me to behave myself. Naga turns the key in the lock, taking me by the forearm and helping me to sit up. "Dreadful," he says, rubbing his thumb against my wrists where the pressure of the cuffs has reddened the skin. "But necessary, I suppose." He tips my chin up. "You'd know better than to run away from your Master, wouldn't you? Where would you go, who would you turn to? Someone would snatch you up out of the street. Then what would happen to you?" 

I don't know. Out into the street, down to the docks where I'd leap into the ocean and swim until I drowned. Or the other direction, out into the countryside of a place I didn't even know the name of. Alone. I'd be alone. Naga's hand cups my cheek and I lean into his touch, pulling my thoughts away from my escape and centering myself in this, in now. 

"You're such a lovely thing, Darkling," Naga says. "I would hate to see anything happen to you." He flicks a glance over his shoulder at Wil. "Be a dear and close the door on your way out."

Wil retreats, closing the three of us in the room together. The already tiny room seems smaller with Naga's huge presence in it, even as he slips off his fine coat and drapes it over the chair by the window. "Oh, that's right," he says, stopping to rifle through the pockets. "I let myself get so distracted that I nearly forgot."

He comes back to the bed bearing a flat velvet box, which Nahne takes with a delighted grin. He sits beside me to open the lid, revealing a pair of earrings that sparkle like moonlight on the harbor. My breath catches as he tilts the box and the light from the window moves fluidly from facet to facet. 

With a nod from Naga, Nahne plucks the tiny studs from their creamy satin pillow and fixes them in his ears. "I don't mean to make you jealous, love," Naga says to me as Nahne closes the lid of the box again. "But when I saw those in the shop window I knew they would look nowhere as beautiful as on him."

"They're pretty," I offer. In reality the earrings look odd and out of place when paired with Nahne's drab gray shirt. I wonder what he would look like, decked in jewels and finery and draped in Naga's lap at some party. I imagine those lips painted red and immediately want to kiss him.

"I'm afraid I spoil him," Naga murmurs against my ear. "Would you like a pair of your own, Darkling?"

The warmth of his breath against my skin makes me shiver. "I-- don't know. I've never worn jewelry."

"Gold would look beautiful against your skin." Naga plays his fingers across my thighs. "And emeralds, perhaps, to match your eyes. Or tourmaline. Nahne looks lovely dressed in diamonds and pearls, but you, my love, are breathtaking wearing nothing at all."

He's leaned down towards me; I know what he wants. I turn my face towards him for a kiss and he deepens it immediately, opening his mouth on mine. His hands, strong and smooth, are already parting my legs. Instead of laying me out on the bed, however, he makes room for Nahne to join us and a spark jumps through me when he touches me. Naga kisses Nahne, then me again, and then Nahne leans down over my lap to take my cock in his mouth.

I begin to bite my lip to muffle my first moan, then suddenly recall that for once, there's no danger of anyone coming to punish us. I let my breath out in a long, needy sound, stroking my fingers through Nahne's hair. Naga puts his hand over mine, gently pushing Nahne's head down. I come forward for another kiss, and when Naga pulls away, he purrs, "I want to watch you come in his mouth."

"It feels good," I sigh, lolling my head back.

Naga places a kiss at my throat. "Each time I kiss you, I expect you to taste as sweet as you look," he says. "How does Garren manage to get any work done, when he has such a delectable treat awaiting him here?"

"I like it when he fucks me," I breathe. I watch Naga's eyes dart to my lips as I run my tongue over them. "I like the weight of him on me. The smell. The feel of him inside of me." 

"And how often does he have you?"

"Not as often as I want it," I say, my gaze locked with his. 

I don't know what I enjoy more: Nahne tonguing the head of my cock, or Naga's attention heavy on me, his breath coming fast through parted lips. I arch my back, thighs tensing as a wave of pleasure rushes through me. I fist my hand in Nahne's hair, pulling his head back as my orgasm crests and my come splatters thickly on his tongue and down his bottom lip. Before he can even wipe his mouth, Naga is fumbling to undo his belt buckle with shaking hands. 

There isn't enough room for all three of us on my small bed; it's crowded enough with Nahne pressed against me. Naga slips Nahne's shirt off of him and I watch the fall of his dark hair over pale shoulders, Nahne's head turning and his eyes closing as Naga kisses his throat. His movements are graceful and fluid, even when being bent across the mattress and digging his fingernails into my thighs as Naga fucks him from behind. 

Nahne lays his head in my lap, letting out a breathless moan. His hands curl into fists, knees drawing up with every thrust so that his toes are only just brushing the floorboards. His next moan is louder, full of the desperation and wanting of a cat in heat, singing out in pleasure and in the satisfaction of having someone inside of him. 

I want him more now than I ever have. I want him panting and moaning and clutching at my shoulders while I fuck him. I want the feeling of his legs locked around my waist. And I want to watch my come dripping out of him as he lays spent on the sheets. 

Naga shifts, letting Nahne edge further onto the bed, and Nahne cries out in raw ecstasy, hips jerking as he comes. He collapses bonelessly on the bed, knees sinking to the floor when Naga releases him. I come forward and into Naga's arms without hesitation-- I know what's expected of me. I bask in his attention as it washes over me again, his hands and mouth finding every sensitive place on my body. 

When he sits on the bed, I fit neatly into his lap, my half-hard cock gliding velvet soft against his, and as I lay my head against his shoulder he smiles and says, "I knew from the moment I saw you that I had to have you."

I laugh. "Lord Naga, I thought the same thing."

His eyebrows go up, but his smile only grows. "Aure," he says. "My name is Aure. Say it with that beautiful mouth."

I say his name with my lips brushing against his, and say it again as he lifts me up so that he can slide inside of me. I say it on the first thrust, and the fifth, and when he kisses me I moan it into his mouth. I sigh it when he comes hot inside of me and I hold it clenched between my teeth as I ride out an orgasm while clinging to him, sweat slicking my hair to the back of my neck.

I rest my forehead against his chest for a long moment, waiting for my breath to even out again. He toys with the curls of my hair, runs his hands over my shoulders again. "I want you to come with me," he says, tipping my chin up. "You're wasted in a place like this."

"Take me out of here," I say immediately, though my heart is in my throat. 

"I will," Naga says. "Some day soon, I will. I think you'd do very nicely in my home." 

He eases me off of his lap, and I return to my place on the bed while he dresses himself. Nahne curls against my hip, half asleep. I watch Naga pull on his shirt, buttoning it and smoothing it down, taking a moment to straighten his cuffs before reaching for his coat. He catches me staring at him and winks. "One day, you'll have something just as fine to wear. But not yet."

I think Wil's been lingering in the hallway, since he's standing just outside the door when Naga opens it. "Ah, my good young man, there you are." He takes Wil's hand for a moment, drawing it toward himself. "You do an excellent job assisting your Master, and lord knows he needs all the help he can get." He releases Wil, who looks slightly shell-shocked. "I shall see you again."

Wil, a little round-eyed, escorts Naga back down the stairs. I lay back next to Nahne, wrapping an arm around his waist and insisting to myself that I still have the energy left to take him for myself-- I just want to close my eyes for a moment first.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many foreigners like Garren come to Portton in search of a better life. Though most move inland toward Chastity City or Baneville, a great deal decide to stay just where they've docked. Because of this, along with its size and close proximity to other desirable settlements, Portton is one of the most diverse areas on the coast.

I am warm, wrapped in Nahne's arms and in syrupy contentment. By now I'm well used to the aching, raw feeling after a man's use of me. With Wil I feel like a pale glob of dough in the hands of a baker, kneaded and punched down, folded and shaped, then left to rest and rise before being pushed down again. Or a rag that a washerwoman wrings out and hangs up to dry.

With Naga...

I was in his control, helpless in his hands, but they were the hands of a master. For the time I was with him I wasn't simply something to be used and put away. Like a painter and his brush he guided me and we made something together, greater than just the sensation of skin on skin, something whose presence lingers on my body still, though my sweat is cooling and the exotic scent of his perfume is being whisked away by the breeze from the window.

Nahne stirs next to me. I lift a hand, stroking it through his hair and then across his shoulders, down his back. I'm reminded of what I've wanted to do to him, when I had him alone. Maybe I'm not quite as exhausted as I thought I was.

He presses closer, putting his mouth sweetly to mine. I don't care how much my legs ache. I force them to support me as I shift to straddle his waist, a bit less gracefully than I'd like. He looks beautiful beneath me, his hair haloed around him on the pillow: something holy, something sent from god. His lips curve into a smile, his eyes meeting mine, and I kiss him again. 

My body is already responding to his. I slip a finger inside of him and listen to his indrawn breath, his back arching off of the bed. I feel a shudder of anticipation and impatience and push his knees apart, inserting another finger and watching him tense and quiver, biting his lip and closing his eyes.

“Mother’s tits, I can’t keep the two of you off of each other.” 

I jerk my hand back; Nahne sighs and leans back against the pillow, shaking his head. Wil, one hand in his pocket, makes a ‘down’ gesture with his fingers as if training a dog. And like a dog, I obey. I’ve seen what happens to those who don’t. 

“I’m not about to send both of you into the bath together,” Wil says, “so you’re going to first, Nahne, but be quick about it. We’ve still got an afternoon’s worth of chores to take care of.”

Nahne gets to his feet, flicking his hair carelessly over one shoulder as he does, and Wil snakes out a hand to stop him. “Take those off,” he says, pointing to Nahne’s earrings. “They’re going into the lockbox.”

He holds out a hand. Nahne unfixes the earrings without a hint of hesitation or protest, and in another moment they’re stuffed into Wil’s pocket, where I’m sure Lord Naga never intended for them to go. I wonder if this happens often, if there really is a box somewhere in the house filled with lavish gifts from Naga.

“Naga must have been feeling particularly generous today,” Wil says, pulling something out of his other pocket. It glints blood red in his palm, and Nahne and I lean in to look at it. It’s a ring, gold and set with a gleaming red stone the size of my thumbnail. I reach out to touch it, but Wil closes his fingers around it and hides it away again. “Nice little bit of shine, isn’t it? Too bad I’m not his type, or I would have gone to my knees right there in the stairwell.”

“Does he always bring gifts like that?” I see an image of myself wearing a necklace of gold that reaches down to my waist, then remember what Naga had said about emeralds and add those to my fantasy. 

Wil shrugs. “Not always, but often enough. Imagine being so rich that it’s nothing to you to throw jewelry at your favorite whore and whoever happens to be standing near him. I’d like to have a Master like that,” he laughs. “Especially if his work kept him busy most of the time.”

I think of Naga’s hands, his mouth, the intensity of his gaze. “I wouldn’t mind keeping him busy,” I say.

Wil’s lip curls. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He straightens up. “Nahne. In the bath. Darkling, get up so I can change these sheets.”

Wil makes sure that Nahne and I don't get many more opportunities to be alone in the next few days. I don't know whether he really wants to protect us from Garren's wrath or if he's just trying to shield himself from being blamed for letting it happen, but the morning after Naga’s visit he begins rising early, earlier even than Nahne, to make tea and stand at my window to drink it as if staring down at cheesemongers and cobblers’ apprentices going to work is the most interesting thing in the world to him. 

There are no secret kisses or stolen moments together as long as Wil is standing guard. Even during the day, when Nahne’s chores bring him into my room, Wil is always lurking just outside the door. I’m lucky to make eye contact with Nahne, or feel the brush of his fingers against my arm when he sets the water basin on the stand next to my bed. Even those tiny moments are electric, and each one leaves me desperately waiting for the next.

The longer Nahne is kept away from me, the less charitable my feelings toward Wil become. With Garren absent for most of the day, Wil is my primary jailer, the one who decides whether I'll eat lunch, if I'll be allowed up to relieve myself or if I can have the luxury of uninterrupted time in the bath after he's done fucking me. He'd seemed so charming at first compared to Garren's brutality, but now I see him as shallow and selfish, humming in the kitchen with his tea while he filches bread and butter, his groping hands making Nahne yelp in the hallway. He uses us as he pleases, but forbids us to do the same. And why put him in charge at all? Isn't he just a whore like the rest of us?

But even if I could, I know better than to outright refuse his attentions, or his orders. Cheeky's still-healing face is a testament to what would happen to me if I tried. I still moan when he's inside me, arch my back for him, bite my lip. I have too little power to forfeit what I have left by being stubborn and laying there like a log until he's finished. I tell myself that it isn't just me that I'm protecting from Wil's temper; I don't even want to imagine black bruises on Nahne's porcelain skin, his pretty lips split and swollen.

My days are so monotonous that it's easy for me to nurse my anger toward Wil. I find myself straining my ears all the time, hoping just to hear Nahne's voice, or his soft singing to himself as he works. More often than not I hear customers downstairs in the shop instead, their muffled voices interspersed with Garren's deep growl. The shop closes at sundown each day, and I learn to listen to the different sounds of Garren finishing his work there and then opening his doors to the men waiting outside. I count the hard sounds of boots on the stairs-- nineteen steps, and then a pause while Wil undoes the latch. After that, my night's work begins.

When Garren's customers have come and gone, I've washed myself, and dinner has been eaten, I'm put back to bed. Wil's the one who cuffs my wrists again and throws a ratty blanket over me to fight off the chill that creeps through the window at night. He stands over me for a moment, looking down at me, but I keep my eyes away from his. 

He pulls the door shut as he leaves, but I've yet to see it latch properly and it swings slowly back open. Out in the hallway, Garren is putting out the oil lamps, and the slice of light coming through the door grows dimmer and dimmer until I'm left in near complete darkness, save for the shadowy pattern on the wall made from moonlight shining through the curtains. I let out a breath and the house seems to relax with me, creaking and settling.

"Good take tonight?" Wil, his voice pitched low.

Garren makes a thoughtful sound. "No better than usual," he says. 

"Darkling's taking almost as many customers as Nahne," Wil remarks. "Word gets around."

"And he's making up for your lack of them."

"Yes sir." Careful. Very careful.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. You've gotten too old for this game. And too big; had you grown up lithe and willowy I might still be getting some work out of you. Instead you ate me out of house and home and grew like a weed, and became a man while I wasn't looking." 

A few beats of silence. Wil draws a sharp breath. I hear the soft sound of a kiss.

"I've found an interested party." Garren's voice is almost too low to make out. "In West End, a merchant's son. He hasn't struck out on his own yet, but he's made enough working with his father that he thinks he deserves some of the finer things in life."

"I'm one of those finer things, I suppose."

"Of course you are. I know the boy's father, a reliable man. I imagine he's produced a reliable heir." Another silence. "I think you'd live quite comfortably."

"Master..." 

"Had I more space, I would let you stay. I've come to rely on you. But you're wasted here, and I cannot justify the cost of keeping you if you aren't bringing anything in. If that boy makes a reasonable offer, I'll accept."

"Yes sir."

A sigh. "I won't like to see you go." His voice dips lower. "You know I'm very fond of you."

Another kiss. Wil lets out a shaky breath, murmurs something that is too soft for me to hear. Garren chuckles. "Of course not. No one will ever know you as well as I do. I know what you like," he says, "don't I?"

Wil makes a small, needy sound; they're closer now, against the wall beside my door. I can hear Wil's breathing growing heavier, the rustle of clothing. An exhale of breath on the edge of a moan. "Slowly," Garren says. "Don't be impatient."

I close my eyes. Outside my door, a rhythmic sound that must be an achingly slow touch. Wil whispers "Master," and then "please."

"Ah. I've missed this," Garren says, a smile in his voice. "The way you move when you want something. When you were young you used to mewl like a cat in heat. And if I denied you," he says, "you'd beg. How many times have you come with my name on your tongue?"

"Don't stop--"

"Hush. You'll wake the others."

_"Ahh."_

"You were such a wicked boy," Garren says. "It taxed me to tame you. Always fighting: spitting and hissing and clawing. But the moment I found what you needed..."

Wil groans, deep in his throat, a note of urgency.

"That's right. There's the boy I know."

I know the sound Wil makes when he's close to orgasm. I hear it every day, that short gasp of breath held for a moment and then let out in a sigh. I feel relief at the same time he does, releasing tension I didn't realize I'd been holding. Wil struggles to get his breath and I open my eyes again, ears perked. Eavesdropping has granted me with a precious secret, and I want to listen for more.

There's a long silence, disturbed only by Wil's breath evening out. I imagine them standing in the hallway in each other's arms, Wil's head on Garren's shoulder, enjoying a few quiet moments of rest, and feel an unexpected stab of jealousy. I had been in Garren's arms once; the memory is hazy with drink. It had been warm. Comfortable. 

I don't want Garren. I want the quiet, the easy closeness with another person. I can recall the sensation, but can't pair it with a memory. Something else than this hard mattress and a scratchy blanket, something other than waiting all day for someone to use me and then lock me up alone again. For a moment I smell alfalfa and sun-baked earth, feel wool thick between my fingers, smooth stones at the bottom of a stream cold on my bare feet. I hold my breath, not daring to chase after the memory. I fade back into the dark bedroom, the shadowy lace pattern on the wall, the cuffs hard on my wrists. 

"Master," Wil says, very softly, "If you tell me to go, I will. But missing you will hurt."

"Sweet-tongued boy." Fond. "Come along. I haven't finished with you yet."

I expect there to be some kind of announcement, given Wil's position in the house, but as the days pass I realize that Garren intends to keep Wil's departure a secret. I keep what I know to myself, but I wonder if Nahne notices that Wil's been acting a little subdued. I can't imagine Cheeky has time to notice much these days, but in the mornings I see Wil handle him a little more gently as he leads him downstairs. 

It's been two weeks since Garren put that collar on Cheeky. In that time his bruises have all but healed, and the split in his lip is little more than a black scab. The shadows under his eyes have grown darker, though, and he eats little at meals even when he's offered a full plate.

He sits down at the dinner table, eyes down. His chin and cheekbones have become more sharply defined, making his dark, hooded eyes seem too deeply set in his face. A few more weeks of this and he'll look like a skeleton, the last of his color drained away. He catches me looking at him and frowns at me. The force of his glare has dulled a little, as if he no longer has the energy to hate me quite as much. Or maybe that's wishful thinking.

Nahne sits beside me and we clasp hands briefly under the table, the only close contact we can get away with anymore without Wil interfering. Cheeky's eyes flick between us, and I know he's seen, but he says nothing. I doubt he'd do anything to spare me, but maybe he's worried the blame would fall on Nahne instead if he tattles. I don't think anyone wants to see sweet, lively Nahne with a thick collar around his neck, dragged into a storeroom to work on his knees all day.

Wil lays our plates out before us, some kind of tender shredded meat on a floury roll. It smells pleasantly of pepper, and I'm so occupied with leaning into the steam, mouth watering, that I hardly notice Garren coming into the kitchen with a palmful of bronze and silver coins.

"This," he says, setting the coins in a stack on the table, "is fifty-eight wen. Cheeky's largest take since he started doing day work. He still hasn't quite caught up to Darkling and Nahne, but it's enough to earn his keep."

"And he hasn't managed to hit anyone in a while," Wil smirks from the stove.

Garren comes to stand behind Cheeky's chair. Cheeky doesn't look up at him, but instead stares across the table at me, as if warning me that anything that Garren does to him will be my fault. I stare back, silent. His eyes narrow. "Cheeky," Garren says, tipping the boy's chin up, "I only ask that you be quiet, obedient and hardworking. In exchange you get three meals a day and a clean bed to sleep in, which is more than many can say in this town. You may think I'm hard on you, but without me your life would be much harder. There would be no one to steer you when you went adrift."

Cheeky is quiet for a time, uncertain if he's supposed to respond, then ventures a "Yes, sir."

"I'm going to let you go back to your chores during the day. And I know you'll go at them gladly, now that you know what the alternative might be. You won't be talking back to Wil any longer, either. And if you perform adequately you might enjoy as much freedom as he does." Garren unhooks the collar from around Cheeky's neck. "You certainly won't be wasting any more of my time reminding you how to behave yourself. Will you?"

"No sir." Cheeky reaches up to touch his neck, then rolls his shoulders. "Thank you. Master."

"There's a good boy." Garren steps back toward the stove, touching Wil on the shoulder as he moves past. "I'm not your enemy," he says to us, though his eyes are elsewhere. "I want you to succeed. And I will do everything in my power to help you do so. There'll come a time when you'll feel grateful for how strict I was with you."

There's a murmured chorus of 'Yes sir's. Satisfied, Garren returns to his bedroom. Almost before the door is shut, Cheeky's shoulders slump, and his lower lip trembles for a moment. I look away uncomfortably; there's no privacy here in the cramped and brightly-lit kitchen, particularly when neither he nor I even have the luxury of clothing to hide in. Nahne bows his head to pray, and I watch the way his hair falls over his shoulders, listening to Cheeky's damp-sounding sniffs. 

"Get some dinner down you," Wil says. He's eating his meal at the counter, plate balanced in one hand. "This day'll just run right off your back once you're back in bed and resting. Tomorrow we'll do it all over again."

Cheeky drags his hand across his eyes, his palms over his cheeks. He refuses to acknowledge Wil, instead starting in on his food in silence. 

Evening comes the day after with its familiar string of men, some of them strangers but many whose faces I recognize. I can spot sailors by the pattern of their tattoos and dock workers who smell of whatever they've been unloading that day. The greengrocer always comes with fresh vegetables, and prefers me on my knees, which is a difficult position when my hands are chained together at the head of the bed. It usually ends with my face against the mattress and him moaning someone else's name.

I lay in bed, the stink of old sweat in my nostrils, and listen for Naga's coach to pull up outside, for his boots to come up the stairs, for his sultry purr of a voice saying my name. I've played our brief encounter over and over in my mind, closed my eyes while someone else is on top of me and pretending it's him inside me again. 

But the night wanes on and the stream of men slows to a trickle with no sign of him, just like yesterday, and the day before that. Soon someone's going to come and let me up so I can go and wash myself and at dinner, Garren might stroke my hair or pat my cheek if he's pleased with me, and in the morning Wil will come into my room to keep Nahne and I away from each other. It's not just that I want Naga. I want to be touched gently again, by someone. Anyone. Even the foul-breathed blacksmith who leaves streaks of soot down my sides.

"That's fourteen... fifteen. More than twice what I paid last time, so I expect not to be interrupted again."

"What's that?"

"A gift." A little defensive.

"A gift of what, exactly? New sheets?"

A long silence, then, "...It's something I made. I got some rough measurements the last time I was here, and..."

"Twenty wen, if you're going to be messing about with costumes."

"But-- Alright. _Alright._ You won't keep many customers by fleecing them like this, you know."

"I only ask for extra coin from those who want something out of the ordinary. I have to be sure I'll be able to afford repairs if you damage any of my things."

"I suppose you think Darkling is one of your things." An angry mutter.

"You're absolutely right, the boy belongs to me, not you, and I decide how much it costs to fuck him. Twenty wen, please, or stop wasting my time."

I hear the clink of coins, and after a moment the door opens. My visitor is silhouetted in the open doorway for a moment before he turns up the lamp. It's only after he's shut the door behind him that my eyes adjust, and I recognize the smooth face and mousy glasses. "Shan!"

His smile breaks into a pleased grin. "I wasn't sure if you'd remember me."

"Of course I do." I'd thought often of those long, artistic fingers sliding across my body, his soft exhalations on my skin. "Did you make me something?"

Shan approaches my bed, a bundle of cloth clutched to his chest. "It took longer than I thought it would," he says. "T-to make, I mean. I wanted to get every detail just right. There were some special alterations I had to make, because of your... situation. And there's a difference in making it for a boy, instead of a girl." He looks down at his bundle, then back up at me, pink-cheeked. "Would you like to see it?"

"Did you make it out of the cloth you had?" I ask, sitting up as far as I can with my hands still bound. "Let me see."

Shan unfolds the bundle, which falls into the shape of a dress: shorter and less showy than I'd imagined, but still well made with traces of dark green embroidery along the bottom hem, underneath which a white slip peeks. "There wasn't enough fabric left on that bolt for me to make anything decent," he says, "but I went out and got something of a similar color. For you." 

He comes closer, letting me feel the softness of the fabric and the neat lines of stitches, tiny and perfect. "Did you really make this yourself? And the embroidery?"

"In every spare moment I had," Shan says with a self-conscious chuckle. "In the mornings with my tea, in the evenings burning down more candles than I usually use in a month. I wanted-- I didn't want to return until I had something--" he pauses, embarrassed. "Worthy of you."

"It's beautiful," I tell him. "I've never seen anything like it." The skirts she'd worn had been longer than this, more voluminous and in brighter colors, but they were a simple make, pulled around the waist and tied together with string. I push the half-memory from my mind, not wanting to get lost in it. "Will it fit me?"

"I hope it will," he says, "though it may be a little big. I preferred that to too small."

"Let's put it on." I lift my feet a little. "There's no mirror, so you'll have to tell me how it looks."

"The color at least will look lovely on you." Shan slips the dress neck-first up my legs, then over my hips. I realize the collar splits in two and ties in the back to allow this, and the sleeves are split as well, making them able to be fastened around someone who didn't have their hands free. 

"You've put a lot of thought into this," I say, bending my neck forward so he can close the collar. The feel of his slender fingers at the nape of my neck sends a shiver through me, not at all unpleasant. "How long did this take you to make?"

"I... well..." Shan's fingers move to my shoulders, finding the strings along the sleeves. "To be truthful, I've been working on drafting this pattern for months, but had never started work on it, because..." His eyes flick to mine, then away. "There was no one I could think of that I wanted to wear it. Then I met you, Darkling, and I knew as soon as I saw you who I'd been designing for. It took only a few nights to alter the pattern to your measurements."

"You like this," I turn my hand so that my fingertips touch his wrist. He stills. "The dress. The bed." I look up at him. “The bonds.”

"It..." He finishes tying off the sleeve. "Yes," he says in a softer tone. "I do." His mouth twists a little. "I suppose you think that's..."

"You don't know what I think," I tell him. "But you're the only person who cares what I think."

He falls silent at that, straightening up and looking down at me with a strange expression on his face: wonder. Satisfaction. I watch desire hit him hard, his eyes darkening with it, watch him moisten his lips with his tongue.

"This dress is beautiful on you," he whispers. 

"As good as you've imagined?"

"Better." 

He bends to kiss me. I open my mouth to his, and feel his hand touch my side, splaying his palm over the fabric and moving down between my legs. He explores the shape of my thighs through the skirt, smoothing it down to my knees. It's an odd feeling, the silkiness of the slip against my skin, the muted warmth of his hands, but I know he likes it, and I can come to like it, too. 

"I wish you could see yourself, Darkling," Shan says. He's shucked off his shirt and is laying half atop me, one knee between my legs, his fingers following the lines of decorative stitching on the front of the dress. "You're perfect."

He has the dress hiked up above my hips now, the skirt pooling around my waist and exposing my cock. Shan touches me the way I've needed it, the way I've been wanting it for days. His eyes are on me as he strokes a hand over me, watching my back arch, watching my head tip back and my breath hitch in my throat. He's taking his time with me, drinking in the sight of me, and I'm greedily moving to meet each one of his touches, opening my mouth to ask for more.

Being with him is different than before-- closer, more intimate, almost frantic, his kisses striking sparks from my mouth and my neck. He weaves his fingers through mine, palm to palm, then traces the hard curve of the cuffs around my wrists, making the chains jangle against the head of the bed as he thrusts into me. The dress is bunching under me, damp with sweat, making it hard to brace myself against the mattress. 

I wrap one leg around his waist instead and he responds by shifting so he can strike me more deeply with every movement, leaving me shaking and gasping in the wake of each spike of pleasure, as if being tumbled by waves in a high tide. Sweat drips from his chin, landing with a little dot of warmth and desire on my collarbone and rolling down to the collar of the dress, adding to a dark smear of moisture at the hem. 

The angle and speed of his thrusts wrench me toward orgasm, stealing the words from my throat and allowing only an animal sound of ecstasy to escape, a high, desperate moan without thought or sense that might have started as his name or a plea for mercy. I come hard, hips jerking upwards, the rasp of fabric across my ultra-sensitive cock amazing and then abruptly unbearable as Shan works toward his own release. It shudders out of him a heartbeat later as he pulls out of me, spilling hot over silk and skin and perfect embroidered stitches.

I'm still staring upwards in oblivious afterglow when he kisses me on the mouth, a simple and chase press of his lips to mine. I begin to turn my head away, fighting the return of the dingy room, the shadows moving through the yellow lamplight that snakes in beneath the door. Shan catches my chin with his fingers and kisses me again. By the time he's pulled away, cold, prickling reality has returned and I look up to see him settling his glasses on his nose again and smiling down at me. 

He looks at me as if I'm the only thing that matters in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead yet, don't want to go on the cart
> 
> If you guys ever want to know the status of the fic in progress, just drop me a review or a dm and I'll let you know how it's going.


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